


Through a dark night, without a sunrise, love will tell us where to go

by LunaCanisLupus_22



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Antisemitism, Bisexuality, Bucky Barnes lives a somewhat quiet life, Bucky spends time with people who've gone through similar experiences, Canon-ish, Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Spoilers, Celebrity Crush, Deception, Declarations Of Love, Dubious Consent, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, False Identity, False Memories, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, Linguistics, M/M, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Multilingual Characters, Mutual Pining, POV Bucky Barnes, Past Torture, Pining, Police Brutality, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Racism, Sexism, Slow Build, Solitary Confinement, Threats of Violence, all the pining, basically Bucky meets a lot of jerks, of original characters, police mistreatment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-09-12
Packaged: 2018-07-29 21:22:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 126,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7700146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaCanisLupus_22/pseuds/LunaCanisLupus_22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I know you,” he says faintly.</p><p>“Yes,” the man agrees without looking up. “I’m Captain America.”</p><p>That’s no it. That can’t be it. There’s something more. There’s something-</p><p>“No.” The declaration is persistent now. “I <em>know</em> you.”</p><p> </p><p>Or the one where Bucky doesn't remember being Bucky or the Winter Soldier but ends up a little too interested in Captain America anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Fic title comes from [Love Will Tell Us Where To Go](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cXR0jeXbH1E) by Bridgit Mendler.
> 
> Whoooa. This has been a long effort. Like a really long effort, long enough that I'm posting it as chapters because I didn't expect such a huge fic to come out of this but there you go!
> 
> This is basically set after The Winter Soldier and has Civil War spoilers since it borrows only a few references that happen during the film (though you might not even notice it). Funny thing, the character I wrote in as Bucky's friend when he doesn't remember himself is a black woman with a lot of similarities to the new female Iron Man character that's only just been mentioned (what a coinkidink!). 
> 
> Also, I'm not too great at languages so if I've gotten anything glaringly wrong please tell me so I can fix it! Descriptions of some of the tags are written below and might be a little spoilerish but please make sure to read them if you're worried about being triggered.
> 
> The biggest form of dubious consent in this fic comes from Bucky's mindwipe and his inability to know exactly what happened or the circumstances in which lead to the mindwipe and therefore assumptions about who did this to him.
> 
> There is also dubious sexual consent in an encounter between Steve and Bucky in their early twenties after they've both consumed alcohol and use it as a crux to engage in sexual activities in the dark of their shared apartment. Bucky pretends he is too drunk to notice that it's Steve he is with and not a woman and Steve is willing to engage in the deception in order to be intimate with Bucky due to the period of time they're living with and it's unforgiving fews on differing sexualities. Without any communication after the encounter, they both assume that they've taken advantage of the other, despite the both of them consenting to pretending without explicitly acknowledging it. This is not addressed for some time between them. If there's anything else I need to tag, please tell me!
> 
> Hope you enjoy it and let me know what you think!

  
  
  
  
  


The first thing he knows is that someone is watching him. 

It’s his first week back in the U.S when his body still remembers the past hurts of the accident. He’s tired, sore and all nerves, any sleep relentlessly disturbed by the hefty and disquieting weight of unseen eyes.

They can’t be found in the open windows that peer into the apartment or the row of vehicles that sweep in and out of the street in a medley of indistinguishable colours, but he knows they’re there. There is a part of his mind that maintains it as paranoia gone rampant, but he knows, he knows that this is reality. 

A reality where the war stood up on its hind legs, forked tail swishing ominously between them and followed him home.

The accident is the dense metal lid that sealed the roiling expanse of his memories inside. He was a soldier, he thinks, or a translator. Or both. There was a lot of travelling. Living overseas for most of his life. He was something.

Then the accident.

The doctors seem to think the memories will come back eventually until every last piece is restored but he’s not holding out much hope for that. He’s been unmoored for so long that everything of value has been swept out to sea.

The surveillance is a complication. If he was a soldier involved in crooked undertakings it’s plausible that they might be monitoring his movements. Or maybe this is a misguided way to observe his recovery. The status of wellbeing.

It doesn’t matter. Strangers who skirt the fringes of social contact cannot be trusted when the certainty of their intentions is unknown. 

Each face he passes in the stairwell, or the lobby, or in the street is committed to memory in the event that the next face following him might be recognised. He quickly memorises every resident on the third level where his apartment is situated and keeps track of their schedules and any unusual hours they may keep.

The second night he rips through every inch of the apartment, overturning anything that can be toppled. Each piece of rickety furniture is a polished stone sheltering a scorpion beneath it.

He discovers three listening devices. One in the bedroom, one in the ratty couch that’s probably been around since the First World War and the last one in the kitchen wedged beneath the counter.

He doesn’t destroy them because that will only gain unwanted attention and instead finds new homes for the invasive ears. Tosses one in the dead pot plant in the hallway which majority of the residents use as an unsolicited ashtray (he’s not an expert but this is probably the cause of death), drops another in the black hole that is the return to sender box stacked in the corner of their mail room and the last, he places in the basement's makeshift laundry room where the machines are. 

Each rinse cycle sounds like a call to battle and he hopes the listeners appreciate the thunderous percussion when he abandons them to their fate.

He returns to the mailroom at two in the morning, seized by a frenzied suspicion and breaks into each individual apartment’s mailboxes. He learns the identities of every single person living in the complex. All seven stories full of them. In spite of the accident his mind is a sponge, soaking in every pertinent detail.

None of the names listed raise any red flags. The task does nothing to dispel his mounting unease at the precarious situation and he only leaves the mailroom once night slips into morning.

A deadbolt is installed on the front door of his apartment after the discovery of listening devices and each day he routinely combs the area for more. None seem to appear and the apartment remains undisturbed.

The people monitoring him withdraw after that and he senses this mostly because the pressure of eyes on his uncovered back lessens. They’re still around though. Still watching.

If they don’t abandon the surveillance, he’s going to disappear. It’s the only logical option. 

Something is critically wrong if he is the target of an unknown’s recon mission. Maybe he was worse than a soldier. Maybe he was a criminal.

He packs a backpack full of necessary items in preparation for a quick escape and stuffs it behind the tight space between the fridge and the wall until it’s needed.

In the meantime, he prowls the city, doing only what they might expect a man recovering from a brain injury returning home without any form of income would do. He applies for jobs. 

He has some money saved in an account but not enough to survive on indefinitely and also keep a roof over his head. The USB device hidden in his coffee tin holds a few files and documents. One of them is a resume which seems fortunate since he can’t remember most, if any, of his work history.

It says he knows mixed martial arts and a lot of other different fighting techniques. He’s unsure where all of the paranoia and street-smarts came from. Professionally, he was an army linguist. In Moscow, in Berlin, in Warsaw, Belgrade, Vienna, Ankara, Paris, Kiev, Tokyo, Minsk, and Bucharest before his accident took place and they shipped him back home.

The wind up toy that couldn’t wind up anymore.

He's fluent in a lot of languages apparently but remembers learning none of them. This insight does not bother him as long as it should. It’s no simple task trying to find employment and the legwork has him roaming all over the city despite the falsity of the performance. The effort is mostly a legitimate excuse to leave the apartment every day and avoid the eyes watching him so he hops to it with only a calculated enthusiasm. 

The exercise is designed to absorb attention and he summons the glittering allure of charm whenever a sign advertising 'employees wanted' fills his vision. Charisma unfurls within him, before he’s grasping sluggishly at the root of it, yanking it to the surface and while it isn’t something he’s forgotten per se, it doesn’t feel very natural anymore. 

Charm is less about being well liked and accepted and more of a technique for a clever predator enchanting prey. He is not unclear of which creature belongs to him in the scenario.

The numerous interviews with business owners require concentration and distracts from the niggling thought that he’s still under surveillance. The backpack is still wedged behind the fridge, awaiting orders. He feels the precise moment when they leave, as if they’ve been physically peeled off of his skin to ensure the separation. But he remains vigilant anyway, ready for the other shoe to drop. They are bound to return with reinforcements or a different shift of unknown watchers will replace them.

But they don’t come back.

Instead, he gets called in to four of the businesses that he applied to. Only two of them actually pan out: a self-defence course and a language teaching gig and with some manoeuvring he can work both jobs at once. 

The backpack stays where it is.

 

  
  


 

“Okay, now find the solar plexus.”

Raenia carefully lifts her hand too high and hovers it in the air in front of his sternum. 

“No, lower,” he instructs without touching, demonstrating how to adjust the position until it’s correct.

“Hitting the solar plexus causes the diaphragm to spasm and can knock the breath out of an attacker,” he explains patiently to Raenia and her practising partner, Layla. “Alright now repeat those steps keeping the right positioning in mind.”

“Sure Jay,” Raenia agrees but she’s smirking and stalking toward Layla as if relishing the chance to get her hands on her.

He leaves them to it and continues pacing around the outskirts of the group, correcting stances, offering advice and encouragement and answering any questions. As always, he makes a point to never touch any of the women without their express permission, sensing that a lot of them are here to learn self-defence because they need to. 

Not all of them manage to conceal the bruises from his sharp, perceptive eyes. But not all bruising is physical; a lot of it is emotional as well. And most of it drives their determination and presence here in these sessions. 

Not all wounds can be seen.

This is why he decided to teach this class. It’s all about the prevention of danger, self-defence in high stress situations and avoiding confrontation rather than instigating it. He teaches five classes every week but the session times always vary. Women-only defence classes do exist in New York, but they’re a little uncommon at the Krav Maga Institute. 

He’s still teaching the class anyway. All of his sessions are female only, except for the class he teaches on Tuesday. The other Krav Maga instructors tease him affectionately about them, thinking he’s only familiar with self-defence and the absolute basics but his body is well versed in a variety of fighting styles and techniques. 

Krav Maga is not a foreign concept to him.

That doesn’t mean he agrees to any friendly sparring matches though. That’s not a good idea. It might draw too much attention. 

The thought makes him uneasy.

They’re practising defence against a double hand front choke this week, one of the most common domestic violence attacks and they go over the steps until their hour is up. 

Natsuko seems to be showing the most improvement. He’s been teaching self-defence for almost two weeks now and each student seems to be picking everything up without much difficulty. 

When the session is over and his students are collecting their bags and drinking water he approaches the woman, footsteps loud enough to announce it. Natsuko takes a large gulp of her bottled water and regards him with dark eyes.  


“たいへん　よくできました.”

She seems startled by the fluent Japanese and the compliment but recovers an indulgent smile and inclines her head out of respect. “どうもありがとう.”

He smiles at the group and promises to see them all next week. The smell of warm skin and unfettered satisfaction at their achievement lingers in the room. 

They filter out at an easy pace now that the session is finished, chatting amongst one another and the hubbub of voices is oddly palliative. He locks up the studio and follows down the flight of stairs and into the chill of night air as it settles into evening. 

Out of all the classes that he teaches during the week it’s this one he dislikes the most. The sessions normally go for two hours so by the time the whole thing is wrapped up it’s nine o’clock on a Thursday night when the city’s already rowdy for the weekend and a lot of stupid shit happens.

He doesn’t delight in sending a class full of twenty two women- most of them suffering some form of anxiety or PTSD- out into the thick of it. Since he started working at the Institute, he’s argued from the beginning that the session needs to be earlier and that it shouldn’t finish so late, but the rooms are at full capacity on Thursdays so there’s nowhere else for them to go. Short of cancelling the Thursday session altogether. 

And he doesn’t want to deprive any person of the chance to learn to defend themselves.

So at the beginning of the course he made a point to explain the situation and suggest they establish a buddy system for the walk home. He doesn’t ask where any of them are going, never does, but the system mostly works for everyone. And on the off chance it doesn’t, that someone is going a certain direction by themselves he’ll make a point to offer and if they’re willing, stay behind to walk with them and ensure that they get there.

Safety is paramount. This is exactly why he’s here. To make sure everyone learns and gets home safe.

He tries to keep this buddy system practice ongoing throughout all his classes, depending on how late they finish. The men’s session he instructs is treated the same. If he notices that one of them is an abuse survivor he doesn’t press or demand any details. He keeps up his no touching policy throughout all classes in order to respect other's personal space as well as his own. 

They’re here to learn. So he teaches them.

Raenia is waiting for him outside since nobody ever seems to be going in the same direction that she is. This might only be the second time he's walked with her but from the very first trip together friendship had already kickstarted between them. He hasn’t made a lot of lasting bonds since his return home. Mistrust is a strong deterrent. But he values the familiarity of Raenia’s company.

“Did you enjoy the lesson?” he wonders when they turn left toward Columbus Circle Station together. 

Raenia's only mentioned that she lives in Tribeca and is learning self-defence for a multitude of reasons and although he can clearly see most of them are marked with the horror of a life-altering trauma, it’s never come up between them.

When he’d come out of the Institute after the first session, she’d been standing in the leftover light, scratching at the fuzz of her shaved skull and peering watchfully out into the darkness. He’d offered to walk her to the station and after a deliberate pause she’d agreed.

Now it's their post-workout ritual. He always walks Raenia to the station.

 

  
  


 

He likes open spaces. There’s something calming about open air and a sheltered vantage point.

Once he’s certain the surveillance has stopped, he makes his way up towards the roof of his apartment. The quality of the stairwell diminishes the higher he ascends and once he reaches the heavy set door there’s broken beer bottles and cigarette butts littering the landing.

The door is metal, not locked but the mechanism for opening it is rusted and requires maintenance to open. He glances over the metal rungs of the landing, searching for anyone else in the stairwell before he braces his shoulder on the metal and uses his left hand.

The door gives way with a tiresome screech, metal flaking beneath his fingertips but eventually unjams. The first burst of fresh air against his face is bracing as he carefully seals the metal door behind him. By the colour of the metal flakes it’s been rusted shut for several years by now so it’s smarter to keep up the illusion.

The roof is spacious and there’s a spot for him to curl up out of sight, between the vents, the heat from them keeping the space relatively warm. He moves soundlessly towards the ledge and looks down onto the street below. Night has already fallen and the moving headlights, shop fronts and fading streetlights leave the space awash with colour.

There’s not much cover out here but the darkness makes him feel less exposed as he buries his fists into the pockets of his hoodie. The sounds of the street below travel upward as he eases onto the ledge in one fluid movement, foot tucked against the concrete as he straddles the edge. His other foot dangles in the air below but there's no fear when he leans over for a better look.

It’s nice up here. A good place to think. There’s something familiar about being isolated but watching the world move on below. Something that he thinks he’s used to. 

He feels calmer than he has since returning, just sitting here. 

The world always seems smaller like this and so do his problems, focused as if through the scope of a gun. This is a spot for perspectives. For being apart but not completely alone.

He watches the traffic for little over an hour, and thinks.

When he finally returns to his third story apartment, shutting the door behind him and scattering the broken glass to keep up the pretence of the door still being undisturbed, his fingers feel strangely empty.

 

  
  


 

He picks up a woman in Queens the first week back just a few blocks away from his apartment in Jackson Heights at Bocaito, a Colombian and Spanish wine bar. Carmen has a sultry grin, beautiful dark hair and a laugh that breathes life into the room.

She willingly follows him home and they fuck on the floor, hard and fast, no need for the bed or foreplay. It’s good, but not great sex. There’s nothing particularly exceptional about it. Just another way to blow off some steam.

Afterwards he tips over onto his back, subtly discarding the condom in the trash once it’s tied and listens to Carmen catch her breath. Her hair is damp with sweat and it’s scattered across her naked skin in a chaotic mess, indicative of a good roll around. He could go again, his stamina is a little uncontrollable with an abnormally short refractory period but he keeps the suggestion unspoken because he doesn’t actually want to. 

When Carmen staggers to her feet with that pleasant chuckle again, legs shaking as she gathers up her clothes and starts tugging them back on it’s a distinct conclusion to their interaction for the evening. He sits up, but doesn’t bother to do anything besides lean on his elbows and quietly watch her get dressed.

“Whoa,” she exclaims, still unsteady even though he’d been careful not to hurt her. “Dios, you’re a machine.”

And she laughs again, the sound transforming into something much more monstrous. A part of him trembles and breaks, fracturing into thousands of jagged pieces. He manages to force a smile when she blows a kiss and stumbles out of his apartment a second later.

The door barely snaps shut before he’s diving for the bathroom toilet and hurling his guts into it.

He doesn’t bring anyone else home after that.

 

  
  


He gets tested after. Not because he was unsafe but because he can’t actually remember the last time that he did it. That’s probably not a good sign.

He tries to return to the facility that he first woke up in after returning to New York but when he arrives it’s just an abandoned lot, rubble still littering the corners as if the building has been knocked down.

He asks around to see where the doctor’s surgery went but nobody seems to know what he’s talking about.

Maybe he’s forgotten the right address.

He searches up a doctor’s surgery near his apartment instead and calls in for an appointment. He requests a testing for STD’s and because he can’t remember the rest of his sexual encounters or whether he was safe he has a physical exam, gives a blood and urine sample and provides a saliva sample.

Doctor Sidana is professional and unembarrassed so the entire process, though uncomfortable is not exactly distressing.

His results come back in a week and when he returns, Doctor Sidana no longer works there. The timing is strange but he’d rather focus on his health right now than the inner workings of medical employment.

His results come back in the clear, though his new Doctor notes some peculiar anomalies in his bloodwork and requests another sample, since the rest of the samples though tested, were unfortunately lost due to a clerical error.

He declines the blood test because the request makes his stomach clench and intuitively he senses that doing so would be a mistake. 

The Doctor seems too curious and it makes him feel like he’s under a microscope. 

He leaves the Doctor’s office and doesn’t come back.

 

  
  


 

It’s difficult to decide which language he hates teaching more without the fuel of a morning coffee.

Russian, probably. Or German. Or French. Or Italian. 

Maybe he just hates any language without the morning cup of Joe to accompany it. That’s seems accurate enough.

His classes at Fluent City are spread throughout the week but since most of them are ten-week courses and the pay is decent, he’s not exactly suffering through each lesson. If there’s anything he likes more than teaching others how to hit people, it’s talking.

Down at Fluent City they love him too much for words. Since he’s multilingual, has a Linguistics degree and years of living overseas in multiple countries under his belt before the accident, he’s supremely qualified.

They teach ten language courses at Fluent City, and while he’s running one of them, teaching a range of different people from all walks of life, it’s easier somehow not to mention that he knows every single language in their program.

The problem since being shipped home to the states is that there are still issues with his memory. It’s a part of the amnesia, after affects of the brain injury, but sometimes he forgets things, like knowing entire languages until he hears a snatch of it on the subway and understands the conversation word for word.

It’s just easier to make a list of the languages he knows but even he is allowed some level of surprise at how long it is. Turns out he’s always been extremely talented with his tongue. He didn’t need a degree in order to tell people that.

He’s in his nine am Russian class and since it’s the first week he tries to ease the group into it, asking them to introduce themselves and explain why they’re learning the language.

Usually the answers are simple enough. It’s a part of their lost heritage when their grandparents moved countries, they have a foreign partner who struggles with English sometimes, they need to learn for a job they’re applying for, or to impress a client, or for travelling overseas and adapting to the culture. Some people just like extra knowledge.

The explanations remain fairly constant, though he makes an effort to remember as many names as possible even though he’ll probably recall their physical descriptions instead. His visual memory is surprisingly accurate.

Only one comment stands out in particular. It’s from the handsome black man who immediately heads for the back of the classroom and makes himself comfortable there. He’s wearing motorcycle boots and a leather jacket across a forest green shirt and when he takes his sunglasses off, there’s no doubt that he’s trouble.

When asked why he’s here, his instantaneous response is somewhat puzzling. 

“My friend likes to make fun of me in Russian,” he explains, with a careless shrug. “Think it’s time I levelled the playing field.”

Most of the classroom chuckles, amusement flickering across open faces and his troublemaker assessment is cemented further.

But when they get started working on simplistic need-to-know Russian phrases and questions, there’s no rebellion coming from the back, proving even his snap judgements can be wrong.

Especially when the man leaves at the end of the lesson without another word.

 

  
  


 

There are times when he thinks he might be hearing things. There’s a faint humming in his ears most days, louder in his left eardrum. It’s a phantom phone call, echoing inside his small apartment only instead of a dial tone it’s an indistinct whirring sound like the hum of a working heater. 

Or some kind of working machine. 

He nearly upends the entire apartment one afternoon in a frenzied search to locate it, thinking it's a malfunctioning listening device.

It’s only once he’s upturned his mattress, chest heaving, and skin warm with exertion that the frantic need drains away. It’s irrational what he’s doing. There’s no sound. This is an effect of his accident. He had a traumatic brain injury. Of course there are going to be abnormal side effects.

The humming doesn’t stop. The worst part is that he thinks the noise must be coming from inside his head. 

He learns to ignore it.

 

  
  


 

It’s during his first week of teaching, and also walking Raenia to the subway that she brings up the Avengers. She’s somehow mastered the ability to talk, and text and march forward all in one unified effort and it’s terrifyingly impressive. The action might seem careless, but her eyes drift toward him in her peripherals more often than not as if monitoring the space between them. 

He never stands closer than necessary, always one to uphold the sanctity of his own personal space and still it keeps her on edge. He knows better than to ask why. They barely know each other, she does not owe him her trust.

“Did you hear about it on the news yet?” she wonders, thumbs moving furiously.

There’s so many terrible things to be heard on the news these days, she’ll have to forgive him for feeling less than enthused about monitoring it religiously. Though, his interest in the Avengers might be moderately higher than the innocent small talk they've been exchanging so far. 

“Hear what?”

“The man they mentioned in all those Hydra files that Black Widow dumped, the Winter Soldier. He turned up in Manhattan last week.”

A chill ripples across his skin. “What did the he do?”

“Oh, just wiped the floor with those Hydra asses attacking the Avengers in broad daylight. Everybody flipped out.”

He frowns, pushing hair distractedly out of his eyes. In the rush to Fluent City this morning a few strands were missed when he tugged the length of his hair together into some semblance of appearing like a functioning professional. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

Raenia scratches at her forehead, dark skin ethereal in the night. He wants to tell her how beautiful she is, but refrains because it’s seems wrong to reduce her to something so one-dimensional. As if it might diminish her somehow. 

“Point is the Avengers were losing when he showed up. He saved Captain’s ass and finished the job like it was nothing and people lost their shit. If he can do that to Hydra who’s to say he can’t destroy the Avengers just as easily?”

“You believe that?”

“No,” she protests, harshly. “You should’ve seen the way he was _circling_ Cap, pure protective instincts- but I understand the fear. The video that they released- it’s intense.”

He’s about to ask more questions but she’s already pulling up Youtube on her iPhone and typing the event in. Once it starts loading she passes it over, careful not to let their skin touch and that’s no problem at all.

This is the first time she’s willingly moved towards him since they’ve met. The iPhone carries the leftover warmth of her hands but it doesn’t hold his attention for long. The video is already playing.

She’s right. It is a powerful moment captured in time, and the Avengers _were_ losing. 

The Winter Soldier is a sudden apparition on the battlefield of Manhattan, slipping between Captain America’s unguarded back and intercepting the rocket launcher aimed for him. The man delivers a powerful kick to its underside and it fires up into the sky instead when the launcher is flipped upward. In the next second he’s slipping between enemy and foe, a furious blur as he takes down Hydra agents one by one.

Captain America's already realised he’s there after the explosion lit up the sky but now he stands at the Winter Soldier’s side with his shield held loosely in his fingers, watching the scene unfold. The Winter Soldier turns on him then, sharp and urgent words exchanged with a familiarity that seems almost impossible.

Black Widow helps Hawkeye to his feet and Banner is emerging from the rubble, somehow, miraculously a man and not the Hulk. Iron Man materialises from the billowing smoke in the sky and aims straight for the Winter Soldier but Captain America steps urgently into his path, determined, and they’ve barely exchanged unintelligible words before the Winter Soldier is gone.

It’s- intense. 

Raenia wasn’t wrong. He’s never seen anything fight like that. There’s something otherworldly about the Winter Soldier as if he’s come from another planet altogether. That would shock no one. Thor still hasn’t returned back from his home planet, Asgard, and he’s lost count of how many people he's passed in the streets wearing a shirt with the god of thunder’s face on it. Or children playing with plastic hammers.

The Avengers have had a huge impact on the people after that alien attack a few years back. He’s just lucky he was in Bucharest at the time. Before his accident.

“That is intense,” he agrees before handing the cell phone back.

Raenia accepts it with a grave nod, raising an eyebrow to stare at him. “You remind me of him a little.”

That’s unexpected. They've known each other less than an hour. He pauses to consider the comparison. Does she mean it as an insult? Or a compliment?

“The way you’re protective of people,” she elaborates. “You know you’d probably make a pretty decent hero.”

He snorts as she unzips her hoodie, revealing for the first time the shield symbol on the t-shirt beneath. 

So she’s a Captain America fan. Figures. Everybody’s a fan of Captain America.

“I’m serious, you know,” she grumbles, only a little annoyed.

“I’m not hero material,” he insists, thinking back to all of the techniques he taught in the lesson earlier, that go for the most damage. Permanent damage. He’s not legally supposed to be teaching that kind of defence, but he’d rather they know than have it done to them.

If the Institute found out though, he could get into a lot of shit. Lose the job, definitely. Maybe even get sued. Which is mostly why none of the girls, mentioned ratting him out.

They finally reach the station and he leads her inside until she’s at the ticket barrier. Raenia doesn’t smile but her mouth presses together like she might be considering it.

She slips between the barricade, machine beeping its permission at the appearance of a metrocard before she turns and glances around the space very pointedly, stretching her arms wide in an unmistakable gesture. It seems to comment on the fact that he walked her all the way here just to make sure that she arrived safely onto the platform. 

“Could’ve fooled me.”

 

  
  


 

There’s always an edge of caution whenever he exhibits a particular lock or hold in one of the sessions. He’s always aware of his left arm, because of the pretty distinct muscular imbalance between them which means it can do much more damage than the right.

He’s been working on it since he returned home but so far there hasn’t been much improvement. He’s already bulky enough with muscle, so it’s simpler not to use it, to focus on the right for a normal amount of force.

The freakish strength is a little startling, so he doesn’t broadcast it when it’s easier to avoid. It doesn’t seem like an after affect of the accident. This imbalance has been a part of him for a while now, enough that his body is familiar with the difference and has adjusted to compensate for it.

Some days his left arm feels heavier though. As if it’s carrying a bigger weight than imagined. Usually he ignores the discomfort until it goes away.

But he still needs to be careful with it.

 

  
  


 

The thing is, he loves both jobs. The self-defence classes keep his body fit and healthy and the Russian lessons he teaches at Fluent City never cease to keep his mind, and mouth active.

The pay is enough to survive the week and it frees up a lot of time on the weekends for other things. Plus the hours aren’t too harsh and the only early session he suffers through is on Monday at 8am and it’s really not so unbearable when an entire class of people is also suffering with him.

Coffee gets them through it.

If it came down to it though, it would be difficult to decide which job he enjoys the most. When that light comes on behind his student's eyes, and they finally pull off a technique or a particularly tricky sentence, there’s so much satisfaction to be felt in that moment of understanding. Knowing that he made happen.

Helping people in any way he can feels like its own reward most days.

There’s a man, Richard Taylor who’s learning Russian as a surprise for his wife. He signed up for the ten-week course as an anniversary gift and he’s so excited and enthusiastic to learn that it makes his heart warm.

There’s a woman, Zamira Pérez, who’s only just had a baby, but is still determined to learn to protect herself, and her child, and refuses to let anything stop her.

These are the type of people he’s surrounded by daily. Good, kind-hearted people. It’s not small wonder he can’t choose a favourite. 

He’s never been particularly good at choosing anyway.

 

  
  


 

The troublemaker doesn’t make any waves until the end of the lesson during third week.

An hour passes without any dispute and when the class is over, he’s nearly certain he was mistaken about him. That is until the man lingers pointedly in the back, waiting for the rest of his classmates to disperse. Then it’s clear that he’s got something to say.

Maybe not so innocent after all.

“Mr Reiser?” he mutters, cautiously when his back is turned, already in the middle of tucking away the teaching plan and weekly worksheets into his backpack.

“Call me Jay,” he replies automatically without moving. 

“Jay,” the man repeats as if he can’t adjust to the novelty of it. It’s a pretty common name though. “I was just wondering- you seem like a cool guy so I figured I’d ask if you’d wanna go for a beer some time?”

It’s not what he's expecting. 

He turns around, slinging the backpack over his shoulder and rakes a hand through the hair he’d tousled together into a messy bun that morning. His interest doesn’t feel romantic and he hasn’t caught him ogling his body like some of the other students do when he teaches class.

“Fraternising with students is kinda discouraged,” he replies but regrets it when the guy’s face falls. “But if you’re buying-“

He grins and it’s full of mischief and the promise of future amusements. “I am.”

“Then I guess I’ll take you up on that offer. Sam, was it?”

“Sam,” the man confirms, holding his hand out to shake. “Sam Wilson.”

“Jay Reiser,” he returns, accepting his fingers. Sam’s touch is warm and his skin, calloused. The straightness of his spine and sharp senses scream war veteran. “But you already knew that.”

Something flickers behind Sam’s eyes before the moment passes. “I guess I did.”

 

  
  


 

Friendship doesn’t automatically grow at the production of sharing beers. 

At first Sam is aloof, arms crossed and mouth turned down at the edges as if in anticipation of hostility. He’s lean but seems like he could hold his ground in a fight, more bar fight scrappy than anything else though that assumption might be influenced by the motorcycle jacket.

It’s instinctive to asses the people he comes into close contact with for danger, training to defend against it means needing to recognise potential situations. Observations are what ensure personal safety when encountering threats.

From the set of Sam’s jaw, he’s most likely to punch someone in the face than go for the throat. Straightforward, no ploys or manipulative subterfuge. No bells and whistles. There’s something respectable about that.

Sam’s eyes constantly flicker across the street during the walk to the nearest bar, and it’s so reminiscent of the way some of the girls are at the end of his self-defence class that he wonders if he should be concerned. With Sam acting as if they’re bound to come under attack any minute. He hasn't got any doubts that he's living with PTSD.

There’s a vague sense of wrongness he can’t shake. And when Sam continually rolls his shoulder as if imagining a heavy weight there, he wonders why the hell he’d even offered to buy a drink in the first place. If he’s hoping a bribe is going to get him special treatment in the classes, he’s got another thing coming.

But Sam loosens up a little once they’re inside Bar Nine and settle into a booth. It’s an intimate brick-lined bar lounge but the atmosphere is what makes it one of his favourites. They order their beers and Sam bravely dips his fingers into the pretzel dish that the bartender dumps onto the table, eyes narrow and critical when he stares at him across the table.

Irrationally, it’s like being sized up, as if Sam is trying to decide whether or not he’s worthy of his time. As if he’s not the one who paid for the language course of his own free will. The arrival of their drinks is enough to shake the strange thought.

“So does your friend really give you shit in Russian?” he wonders after a long pull of the beer, just to settle into the conversation. 

Sam’s still tense, like he’s expecting a hit. 

“Oh, absolutely she does. That’s the one thing I do know.”

He doesn’t echo any real displeasure so it could be less about giving shit and more about friendly ribbing. That he can understand.

“Where do you work?”

“Down at the VA,” Sam explains, cradling his beer demurely. 

The Veteran’s Association, of course. The behaviour is much easier to understand now. Sam's a social worker and probably helps other people overcome their PTSD and any other issues whilst dealing with his own.

That, at least they have in common.

“You like it there?”

Sam shrugs, but he’s still holding back. “I used to work at the one in DC. This one’s not much different. I do good there.”

“And you don’t do good anywhere else?”

His jaw clenches and it’s clear too many buttons have been pushed all at once. Backing off is safest; to be sure it won’t result in a fight. 

“I do what I can.”

“Fair enough. Don't worry, I’ll be sure to teach every filthy Russian saying I can think of.” 

His words catch Sam mid gulp and he splutters out an exuberant laugh.

Maybe this wasn’t such a terrible idea after all.

 

  
  


 

Settling back in Queens a month ago had been difficult. The city he’d grown up in had felt elusively unfamiliar after so long and returning to his rented out apartment in the salubrious Jackson Heights had only made the feeling worse. Almost as much as being monitored had. Luckily the lease was up a week before he was discharged from the hospital and he could move back in, no problem. 

With that at least.

The real issue came from the return to routine. It was there in the day-to-day but without any of the surety he could remember. The accident does that sometimes, fabricates truth until it’s nearly unrecognisable. Awareness still comes in strange pulses.

Sometimes it’s just like downloading information, he’ll walk past a building or a landmark and the memory of it pushes to the forefront of his mind, announcing that he’s been there before. It’s a little overwhelming but there’s no other means to stop the influx of random material that his brain is constantly submitting.

The first week back when they’re still watching him, he’s so unsettled he gets on the F Train at Roosevelt Station towards Coney Island and jumps off at York Street, feet moving automatically until he ends up standing on Pebble Beach staring across the East River at the Brooklyn Bridge.

The uneasy feeling in his chest eases and ten minutes later he’s heading toward the underpass on Washington Street until he’s on the Pedestrian Walk stepping onto Brooklyn Bridge itself. 

Only then does everything seem to settle.

He stands on the walkway for twenty minutes and breathes the city in.

It’s not so challenging being home after that.

 

  
  


 

It’s when he’s still unsure if this tentative acquaintance with Sam should even progress to friendship that the decision is finally cemented. Being sociable feels like a talent he had but lost some time ago and all of the rules have changed in the interim. He has to relearn everything all over again and that means it doesn’t always come easy. 

Friendship is hard. And it’s not something to be taken lightly.

They’re at Fluent City and the class has just started, students filing into the room and already the little Ivy League shit that sits next to Richard- and who is clearly only here to fatten up his resume- is hassling him for struggling with the language.

It’s downright cruel. Learning languages isn’t an easy task, especially for people who aren’t multilingual or bilingual. There’s a lot of blood, sweat, tears and dedication involved and Richard’s progress is nothing to sneer at.

He’s never really liked the twenty something year old, with his loafers and sweaters and ridiculously tight jeans and the way he walks around like he's big time, but this kind of behaviour is not improving the impression. Especially when Richard doesn’t protest or defend himself, only sits there quietly and listens, expression lowering as if slowly losing faith in himself. In his ability to do this.

Someone needs to teach this ashcan a lesson.

He just happens to drop his pen at the right moment, when the little shit is walking past and it’s a totally innocuous event until the item rolls under foot and the kid goes down in an explosion of limbs. The sound is highly gratifying and he actively has to resist a triumphant smile.

Richard, actually tries to help him up anyway, but the meatball waves him off, red faced as he struggles into the seat. The classroom titters, in concern and amusement but eventually settles down.

There’s no point speaking since the guy’s eyes are narrowed on him already figuring out what happened so he bends down and scoops up the pen and feigns disbelief.

Instinctively, his attention flickers to the back of the room where Sam is crying with silent laughter, trying his hardest to keep the sounds in as his face transforms with delight.

And that’s what finally resolves the matter. 

Yes, they are definitely friends. 

 

  
  


 

He’s in Manhattan after meeting Raenia for lunch and spontaneously makes the decision to buy a cup of coffee as his companion for the long walk back home.

He sees an open café with a sign standing out the front with a picture of a person with a dead expression on their face. Above it reads, 'before coffee' and below it says 'after coffee' and has another drawing of the same person with the dead expression. The only difference is this time they're holding holding a cup in their hand. 

It's sarcastic enough to make him smile and he steps inside on a whim, sunlight filtering warmly across the back of his neck.

The shop is full of customers seated at the artfully fancy wooden tables that surround the room but there’s only one man at the counter. He’s half leaning across it, bent at the waist as he evidently flirts with the flustered barista who is in the process of making his coffee.

The man is holding the edge of his expensive sunglasses between his teeth while he charms her and an unexplainable instinct to leave this place abruptly settles in his gut. It's a strong enough feeling that it stops him in his tracks, bell tinkling as the door swings shut behind him.

The man turns at the sound, smarmy grin freezing on his face as his eyes turn jagged like a knife's edge. It is not the customary greeting of strangers. All he can think is that the man looks familiar before the force of his heavy gaze is violently sucking all of the warmth out of the room.  


The urge to leave increases when the man straightens stiffly in his expensive suit, fists rhythmically clenching as he prowls toward him.

“You’ve got some nerve showing your face,” he says without any introduction, voice low and overflowing with rage. “Like I haven’t been searching for you all over the city.”

Unease makes his stance defensive, prepared for any attack. “I’m sorry- do you know me?”

The man hesitates, eyes shifting calculatingly from his face to his left arm, to the customers whose attention their exchange is drawing before stopping at his face again.

“I didn’t think he’d be this stupid,” the man mutters angrily before poking him hard in the chest and stepping closer. “You come around here again or if I so much as see your face, I’ll kill you.”

What’s shaken loose within him at the unsettling encounter finally resolves itself at the unprovoked death threat. He feels no fear, spine straightening as he stares this man down with his perfectly groomed goatee and idiotic facial hair.

“Then you won’t see me,” he replies, voice clipped and hard at the confrontation.

The barista calls the man over and he steps back to retrieve his coffee, sliding his sunglasses back onto his face like it’s a signature move. With coffee in hand, the man stalks past him for the exit, knocking into his shoulder with unnecessary force.

He swallows his anger and confusion at being unable to understand the significance of the encounter. But he came in here for coffee and he won’t be pushed out by someone threatening him.

He orders and waits near the corner in full view of the door in case the man returns to fulfil his promise. He struggles to understand why the man is familiar short of actually asking the barista if she knows him, but that will draw too much attention.

He waits in silence, agitated by the blank space where his memories should be, trying to wrack his brain for the man's identity. But nothing presents itself. There's no explanation for why a stranger would be angry enough to want to kill him with his own bare hands.

The way he's lived his life means that he knows what an actual threat sounds like and he has no doubt that the man with the overly complicated facial hair wants to eradicate him from the face of the earth.

The barista signals him once his order is ready and he accepts the coffee with a polite smile before leaving the café. He scans the streets on his way home but doesn’t encounter the man again and no memory of who he is makes itself known.

He only discovers his mysterious identity when he’s curled up on his ratty couch watching the news later that night. They’re replaying an interview that they finally managed to wrangle out of one of the Avengers following all of the recent attacks in the city.

The name announces itself at the bottom of the screen before goatee man can and he can’t believe that he didn’t recognise him in the café. Though to be fair, he’s usually covered entirely in metal whenever he appears on television.

He had a run in with Iron Man today. Tony Stark to be more accurate. And Tony Stark despises him to such a degree that he wants to kill him.

The thought makes him uneasy and he’s quick to change the channel and bury the memory of the encounter somewhere where it can't agitate him. That problem won’t resurface. It’s unlikely he’ll ever see Tony Stark again.

He doesn’t tell Raenia that he met one of the Avengers. She’ll probably ask too many questions and there are so many things he can’t explain like why Tony Stark recognised him and expressed a genuine interest in seeing him dead.

It’s safer to forget about it.

 

  
  


The city shifts around the upcoming LGBTQIA pride parade and he likes the idea of participating in The March if it weren’t for the promise of crowds and the crushing weight of discomfort that it will offer. On Sunday he takes the subway to Union Square alone and locates a nearby church on Fifth Avenue. 

The doors are open and there are no cameras inside so he quickly finds a way to access the church rooftop. There are some locked doors to get through but his fingers unpick them before he can wonder how he knows such a thing.

He sits down on the roof and watches The March from atop the church. There are so many colours and laughing people, dancing and kissing and having a great time. It’s impossible not to smile at them even if he cannot be seen.

He watches for a while, just enjoying seeing people interact and enjoy themselves. The enthusiasm of the crowd changes exponentially before he sees the reason why.

Captain America marches into view at the centre of a crowd of police officers waving rainbow flags. He leans closer to see the sight better, especially since Captain America is in his uniform and carrying the shield he’s famous for. Except that he’s painted it in rainbow colours instead of red, white and blue.

He stays there on the roof watching Captain America as people flock towards him and amongst him, seemingly asking questions and engaging him. His smile is bright and delighted and he tosses his head back to laugh on more than one occasion, shield held high.

He only goes home once Captain America turns with the rest of The March at the corner of West Eighth Street and Fifth Avenue. 

A handsome man covered in glitter and wearing rainbow shorts kisses his cheek on the walk back to the subway only after he gets caught staring and winks at him. 

The man puts a rainbow flag in his hand, an unspoken gift, and dances off into the street with a parting wave.

He smiles for the rest of the walk home.

 

  
  


 

It’s all over the news the next day. Nobody had anticipated that Captain America would join The March and speculation about his sexuality becomes heavily debated.

Captain America has a press meeting a few days later declaring that while he prefers that his personal life remain private and that people respect that by not invading it, representation matters and he is not ashamed of his attraction to men and women.

And that’s how Captain America comes out as bisexual.

 

  
  


 

He goes for jogs through the city a lot and the activity is more cathartic than he remembers it being. He’d been athletic before the accident in Bucharest, sturdy and muscular, and that core fitness hasn’t faded even now. The shift into running is as seamless as the movement of his own two feet. 

Sometimes he runs without thinking about it, no distance in mind but the promise of finishing when fatigue announces itself. But that doesn’t happen very often.

He ends up in Washington Heights. In Murray Hill. In Sheepshead Bay. In the Bronx. Whichever direction he allows his feet to take him. There’s so much more to be seen out on the busy streets, passing through the swarms of bodies, clustered or striding past to unknown destinations.

On those mornings the world opens up for him, the possibility that every single person on this planet is doing something right now, fulfilling their own wants and needs and struggling for happiness amidst them fuelling his thoughts.

He wonders about it some days. Is he running toward something? Or away from it? But it never seems clear enough to answer. 

When he runs, there are no limits. There’s no accident, no language classes, no self-defence lessons. The world falls away beneath his feet. There’s a vivid sense of power and control, the interplay between waking and dreaming. His blood burns, skin warm with exertion and lungs expanding with every rapid breath.

It’s easier to run before dawn breaks because there’s less people and barely any cars on the roads. But when the sunlight filters through the high-rises and people spill out of the subway like a beacon of colour and moving bodies, the city finally starts to come alive.

And he comes alive with it.

 

  
  


 

He and Raenia head out for drinks on Friday night. The idea seems ridiculous since Raenia doesn’t drink alcohol and only orders club soda and with the null effects the whiskey he’s putting away brings, it may as well be the same thing. Alcohol doesn't seem to do much to him at all. 

He can never seem to get drunk.

The point is that the bar is filled with people, laughter and raucous voices and the atmosphere is an interesting and welcome change.

Plus Raenia’s presence is enough to deter anyone thinking of buying him a drink and his formidable silence steers the men as far away from her as possible. They make a viciously defensive team.

And it’s just good to be surrounded by happy strangers sometimes. The environment is almost relaxing.

They’ve grabbed a booth to themselves but the pub is filling up fairly quickly and an explanation for the extra bodies becomes apparent when a woman picks up a microphone and starts discussing the rules.

They’re in the middle of a trivia night and the different groups huddled conspiratorially together finally have a rational justification.

The topic is the 1930s-40s but he tries to ignore the conversation and focus on Raenia instead. They came here to sit on the fringes of social interaction and soak it up, not to dive straight in to actually engaging with people.

“Alright. Here’s the first question. Each group is allowed thirty seconds to answer. Volkswagen started producing this famous car in 1938?”

The group sitting next to them, duck their heads in close to whisper but it’s loud and unfortunately not subtle. Raenia turns her head to listen.

“Shit dude, I don’t know cars. Do you know the answer?”

“It’s those VW vans isn’t it?”

“It’s the Beetle,” he answers without prompting and Raenia raises an eyebrow.

They turn to stare at him and the brown skinned girl silently offers a thumbs up, forehead crinkling with concentration before she scribbles in the appropriate answer. 

The thirty seconds are up and the woman announces the correct answer. 

He was right. The swoop of satisfaction that curves his mouth into a smile is promptly hidden behind the rim of his glass as he quickly drains it.

Raenia smirks a little as if she’s preparing to tease him about the sudden enthusiasm. “Got a thing for history?”

The non-committal shrug is answer enough but the game has drawn his attention anyway. He cradles the glass of whiskey, tilting it at a precarious angle on the table while he listens.

“Next question. What was the other name used for Operation Overlord during World War II?”

He drains the glass and listens to them quietly curse at one another. They don’t know this answer either. Why did they join the game? Surely, there’s no fun in not having any answers to offer.

“D-day.”

The three of them turn to regard him with interest but mark the answer down. 

A minute later the woman on stage reveals it’s correct.

After that they invite him and Raenia to join their table. He surreptitiously glances at her to gauge her willingness. They are not the best kind of social beings. She shrugs.

They join the table. 

The brown girl with the long elegant hair pulled into a bun as messy as his own, introduces herself as Ajalaa and gestures to the Korean man with kind eyes on her left, swathed in a dark blue coat as Hee-chul. Then she directs her attention to the blonde girl on her right, whose pink cheeks are flushed from alcohol as Leena and if her features didn’t already give it away, her accent is definitely Finnish. 

“I’m Jay and this is Raenia.”

“We’re not too good at this. Feel sorry enough for us to help?”

He smiles at their hopeful expressions. “Buy me a beer maybe.”

Hee-chul grins and slides out of the booth, offering a hand to Leena to steady her as they head back up to the bar while the next question is being announced.

“What American gained worldwide fame at the 1936 Olympics for winning four gold medals?”

“Jesse Owens,” he replies and Ajalaa writes it down. “So do you guys live around here?”

“I’m studying at MIT in Cambridge but I’m actually from Providence. I’m on semester break right now so I’m crashing on Leena’s couch for a few weeks. You guys live here too or just travelling?”

“I’m from Jackson Heights. Just got back home to the states for the first time in a lot of years.”

Ajalaa raises an eyebrow at Raenia who doesn’t seem intimidated by it. “New Yorker through and through.”

“In 1937, the German airship, Hindenburg burst into flames while attempting to moor where?”

He winces. “Lakehurst Naval Air Station in New Jersey.”

“You know a lot about the 1930s and 40s,” Ajalaa observes with a friendly smirk, before writing the answer down. “Sounds like you lived it.”

Raenia laughs but a shiver crawls down his neck, cold sweat pooling there as tension makes a home beneath skin and soft tissue. Hee-chul and Leena soon return with drinks for everyone, a beer for him and another glass of club soda.

He takes a sip of her drink first without comment and Raenia watches the process carefully to see if anything happens. When it doesn’t she claims the drink and he pretends it was because he enjoys tasting the flavours. Not to check it’s been drugged. 

The beer is fine as well.

They turn out to be a good group of people. Hee-chul and Leena share an apartment in Queens and both of them attend NYU, though they’re on semester break right now as well.

Leena is doing a bachelor of stage and screen and has even been in a rendition of Wicked on Broadway for a supporting role. Her friends seem immensely proud of her.

Hee-chul is doing a BFA in studio arts and his medium is evidently painting from the remaining flecks of colour caressing his hands. Those delicate painter hands, the clever tools of an artist, hold his attention for the rest of the evening when it should be better focused on the conversation. 

Raenia soon brings the Avengers into the fray and suddenly they’re passionately discussing the modern day superheroes at length in between trivia questions. 

On March 1, 1936 this architectural landmark on the Arizona/Nevada border was completed.

The Hoover Dam.

In 1935, The Delaware Company used a thermal interrupter to invent this for cars.

Turn signals.

In what country were the Lascaux prehistoric cave paintings discovered in 1940?

“France,” he and Hee-chul answer as one.

Hee-chul regards him with renewed interest and the ghost of a grin holds his mouth before he takes another pull of his beer. Those artist fingers curl attentively around a glass, smooth and poised in every movement.

Which player gave an impassioned speech to over 62,000 fans at Yankee stadium saying ‘Today, I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the earth’?

Lou Gehrig.

In 1942, the minimum draft age was lowered from twenty-one in the United States to?

Eighteen. 

In what year did Germany invade Denmark, Norway, France, Luxembourg, Belgium and Netherlands?

1940.

They win the trivia night easily.

It doesn’t matter the question being thrown at them.

He knows them all. 

 

  
  


 

“Why didn’t you ask for Hee-chul’s number?” Raenia wonders when they’re walking back to the nearest subway station to head home. “He was interested. Especially since you were staring at his hands nearly the entire night.”

“I like art,” he protests, unconvincingly.

“No,” she corrects meaningfully. “You like artists.”

The lush heat pooling in his gut has to agree. “I respect their skills.”

“You’ve got a thing for their hands too, apparently.”

“You are a terrible enabler.”

“I’m just saying. The option was there if you wanted to do something about it.”

He doesn’t want to do anything about it.

At least for now.

 

  
  


 

He dreams that night. Of bodies tangled in thin sheets, sprawled across a tiny mattress. Of a bed, shared for two.

There’s a body under him, sharp and all bones, but not as frail as led to believe, lungs rattling with each heaving breath as they move frantically against each other. 

The friction makes his eyes roll back, the slick slide of bodies, warm and perfect while his grip is strong, arm tucked up beneath hips with another hand settled possessively over the swell of an ass, hauling them closer together.

He’s holding too tight, head swimming with the illicit sway of this forbidden encounter. It can’t end; he won’t let it, not if he can’t have this afterwards. He clutches them so firmly that his fingers will leaves bruises on sensitive Irish skin.

He keeps the pace languid, unhurried, face buried into a pale throat and drinking in the soft sounds of startled moans at every private touch. They think he’s teasin’ trying to make them crazy with it but he’s not, he’s not.

If this is all he gets, all he’ll ever get from this then he wants to prolong it as much as possible. The air of the apartment is cold around them, warmed only by heated breaths and they never did have a working heater to begin with. The dry air does nothing good for a bad set of lungs.

But the temperature of this room is sweltering now. The heat of sex, sharp breaths and twisted movements warming everything up until it’s perfect.

It’s perfect. So, so perfect.

They're not talking. His mouth still tastes of liquor and they think he’s doing this cause he’s corked and isn’t thinking straight. As if he doesn’t know who’s under him. 

But he knows. He knows exactly who it is and what their skin tastes like and what they’re doing grinding slow and desperate against each other and he never wants any of it to stop.

With the amount they think he’s guzzled, his particulars usually wouldn't be disinterested in the proceedings but his head is clear as a bell, getting clearer by the minute and he’s wanted this so long that his body remembers. It’s not going to pass up this chance. 

They’ve both had a bit to drink, just enough to be brave, but they’re nowhere near fried by it. Just enough to make them stupid. Reckless with want.

His stroke is painfully hard beneath his trousers, wet and slick and messy but he doesn’t stop sliding against the body so small beneath him but still the largest person in his life. The movement is wild and uninhibited, not even fearful of crushing with his weight since they give just as good as they’re getting. 

The determined grip against the wool of his jacket keeping him close slackens, assured fingers dipping underneath his dress shirt to find the skin beneath and his chest constricts. 

This is going to ruin him for good and he could care less. 

He doesn’t want to come. He wants to stay like this forever with his arms wrapped tight around this stubborn, breathtaking thing as they wheeze urgently into the shell of his ear.

His body doesn’t care. They come first, a high-pitched awed sound that makes his muscles grow taut, gripping the flesh of their ass as they jerk helplessly against him, shuddering breaths and body sensitive from messing up their trousers.

His lashes flutter shut at the thought, coming hard with their name unspoken on his lips, needing to sink teeth into their throat to keep that final confession inside. He traces their name with his tongue and knows things will never be like this between them ever again.

They don’t think he’ll remember what happened but it’s the one thing he vows he’ll never forget.

His body settles into the aftermath, rolling over languidly to his side to give them some breathing room and doesn’t speak. If he opens his mouth he’ll wreck everything, because this is the only time they’ll allow this. When they’re both supposedly too drunk to remember it. 

When they think he’s too drunk to tell the difference. 

But he does. He does. He lays there in the bed, in trousers messy with come and listens to their chest ease and breaths even out before they finally succumb to sleep.

He falls after, body buzzing with a slick joy that he has no right to feel and a yearning he isn’t stupid enough to chase into morning.

The smell of sex lingering in the room around them is distinctly, condemningly _male_.

When he wakes up alone, caught up in the vividness of the dream with a wet spot soaking the sheets, his heart laments the hidden hurts of missed chances.

 

  
  


 

There are a lot of unusual factors about him that begin to stand out when people spend enough time with him. One of those happens to be his fast acting metabolism. 

For some reason, he can put away a lot of food. An almost unreasonable amount. It’s actually inspired a fair degree of unsolicited comments from individuals, some that he works with, waiters at restaurants, stranger’s long puzzled stares whenever he eats too much in public.

He’s not embarrassed about it. Health is important and eating the right amount ensures this but it does draw attention and nobody wants that. He makes sure to get takeout most of the time or cook at home and if someone ever asks about the large amount he’s ordered, he mostly lies and says it’s for a group of friends.

It makes the interaction less memorable that way. The last thing he wants is to draw anyone’s notice for longer than the appropriate amount of natural human interest. Being memorable invites danger. If someone looks at him for more than three seconds the muscles in his legs always automatically tense in preparation to run. What he’s actually running from never becomes any clearer.

When he and Sam first grab lunch together in Hell’s Kitchen, he plans ahead and resolves to stop by a vendor on the way to work after to properly fill his stomach. Otherwise he’ll be hungry and distracted during lessons.

Sam still seems surprised anyway when he only orders one sub at City Sandwich.

“What?” he exclaims without any of the judgement he anticipates. “You’re only getting that? Aren’t you hungry?”

He is hungry. But hadn’t imagined the longing might be so easy to read on his face.

So after gauging Sam’s expression warily, and contemplating the encouragement in his eyes he orders what might fill him up quicker but doesn’t go overboard. He buys two Portuguese submarine sandwiches and polishes them off in record time, watching for Sam’s reaction. Although he could probably eat two more.

But Sam’s completely unbothered, as if it’s not unusual, but expected. Like he’s used to it and it’s so heartening that when Sam can’t finish his own sub, he helpfully demolishes it for him.

Sam burps loudly and unabashedly pats his stomach. The gesture brings out an uninhibited laugh, especially when the teenager working at the til smirks at them.

He and Sam don’t instantly start eating everywhere afterward but he does relax his guard a little. There’s a greater chance he’ll meet Sam so they can eat together, or invite Sam back to his apartment for dinner sometimes.

Especially when he’s thoughtful enough to supply some of the ingredients for the occasion.

 

  
  


 

He wakes up restless, the vestiges of a dream ominously circling his thoughts before reaching for the cell phone on the bed side table. The time says it’s five o’clock so he rolls off of the mattress, wrestles into a thick coat, stuffs his socked feet into some ugg boots and patters into the kitchen to make coffee.

He grabs out the largest mug that he owns and fills it to the brim before slipping out of his apartment and heading toward the stairwell with it clutched in his grip.

It’s too early for anybody else to be conscious so he traverses the empty hallway before slipping through the door that leads to the stairs. Four flights of stairs seems harsh when the sun hasn’t even risen yet but it feels good to use the muscles in his thighs as he hikes upward. The door is untouched since he last left it and when he quietly pushes it open, the steam from his mug can already be seen in the brittle morning air.

He reclaims his perch on the ledge near the air ventilation and gets settled. The streets are moving but the noises are softer at this time, sleepy and remote. He cradles the mug between his fingers and takes a cautionary sip.

The brewed coffee floods his senses and he breathes deep and feels each muscle in his body slowly relax.

He sits there and watches the sun rise. 

The world lightens around him, sunlight spilling between cracks in the buildings as the colour of the sky changes. The soft murky grey shifts into baby pinks and gentle violets, pastel shifting into orange as the sun slowly breaches the horizon.

It’s not that cold even without wearing a shirt beneath his coat and experience tells him that he’s seen a sunrise like this out in the open, beneath the sky, under worse conditions. Dirt between his shoulder blades and rocks for pillows is something he’s somehow well accustomed to. 

It doesn’t escape his notice that his mattress is too soft most days.

By the time the sun greets the sky, he’s drained the entire cup of coffee and slumped further into his hidden nook. The sight of it is breathtaking and much too enigmatic. He’d write poetry about it if he only knew the words.

The morning chill recedes and he returns to his apartment when the city starts to announce the morning. Once he deposits the mug atop the kitchen counter, he locates his cell phone still abandoned on the bedside table.

He sends a text to Sam since he has his details after they exchanged numbers a week ago.

 **Wanna go for a run?**

He’s coming out of the bathroom when his phone buzzes declaring Sam’s reply.

 **I know I’m gonna regret this,** he says, **but alright.**

That’s odd. He puzzles out the meaning of it as they organise a place to meet in Central Park. 

Does Sam not like to run? He doesn’t have to come, if he doesn’t want to. But if he didn’t want to then why did he agree to meet up? It’s too early for conundrums so he doesn’t ponder the issue for very long. Either way Sam agrees and there’s no time to think more of it as he slips into running gear and gets dressed.

The run is a lot shorter this time, because Sam taps out at six miles. He doesn’t mention that he could keep going or that he’s running at a slower pace than usual. There’s no point being an asshole about it. 

It was still enjoyable to run with company anyway. The first time in a long while that he’s actually had someone to invite.

Sam collapses against a tree, breathing heavily as he sits down.

“Man,” he gasps, trying to get oxygen into his lungs. “This is some major déjà vu right now.”

“What do you mean?”

Sam laughs a little wildly as if he can’t believe the situation. “Let’s just say you’re not the first person who’s destroyed my lungs before. Look at you, you’re not even tired are you? Are you sweating? You better be sweating, Jay.”

“I am,” he promises, though it’s obvious that he’s not.

Sam grins anyway. “You asshole.”

He buys Sam coffee after when they’re heading back to their respective apartments because he wasn’t actively trying to rub his fitness in Sam’s face. Sam doesn’t seem very upset by the whole experience though so maybe it wasn’t as bad as he presumed.

Sam even offers to go running again sometime. 

He must enjoy punishment.

 

  
  


 

His hair is getting too long, almost unmanageable so he goes to a barber when there’s a two-hour break between classes at the Institute and his lessons at Fluent City to get it trimmed.

At least he tries to. As soon as he’s in the shop, he starts to sweat. 

The panic writhing under his skin increases in an unsteadying rush when he sees the barber’s chair.

The fear is irrational, even more so since he can’t place where it’s coming from. He can’t remember the significance of it so after a second of hesitation, he stubbornly forces himself into the chair anyway even when every cell within his body is protesting the decision.

It’s instantly clear that it’s a mistake. 

His fingers curl so tightly into the plush fabric of the armrests that he worries he’s going to tear through it. The man doesn’t even get the barber cape around his neck before he’s wrenching out of the seat, mumbling an apology and diving out of the front door.

A panic attack hits him straight after and he collapses onto a nearby brownstone stoop to wait it out. Deep burning breaths that makes his lungs feel as if they’re collapsing in on themselves. When it’s over, he doesn’t go back.

He likes wearing his hair in a bun and it isn’t that long yet anyway.

 

  
  


 

“So this friend,” he begins, in between bites of a burger from The Fat Radish, finally broaching a topic that’s had his attention for a while. “The Russian one. Do you like them?”

Sam drops his burger onto the plate so quickly it makes an unpleasant sound. “What? No! I like her a normal amount.”

If he’s trying to sound convincing, Sam’s failing pitifully. At least the effort he’s expending in class finally has a proper context. Most agendas in this instance tend to boil down to impressing a girl. Or a boy.

He inhales the burger in a remarkable amount of time and when he senses the waitress rushing past, orders another. Sam doesn’t even blink. 

“Right, sure. So how long have you known her?”

Sam steals the fries off of his plate as if he’s being petty, which he is, and regards the question with suspicion. “Only recently.”

“But you’re learning an entire language for her,” he points out craftily, stealing some of the fries back and cramming them into his mouth before Sam can do something shitty. 

Like lick them.

That’s never stopped him eating something before and it’s not going to now.

Sam maturely flicks a napkin at him. 

There isn’t much of an argument that can be made here to successfully deny it but apparently he’s damn willing to try. “Not like that. I’m just trying to level the playing field a little.”

He's said that before but that doesn't make it anymore true. If Sam’s going to pretend the torch he’s carrying for this girl doesn’t exist then he’s not going to destroy the illusion. 

It will catch up with him anyway. 

It always does.

 

  
  


 

Captain America is hovering over him, dressed in full hero garb and plastered soothingly against his back. He can’t see his face but he knows it’s him, focusing archly on the fact that he’s unreservedly naked and Captain America is rigorously driving his dick into his ass.

He groans, tormented and low into the pillow with how good it feels, hands scrabbling for purchase as he’s nudged onto his stomach, Captain America firmly pressing in deeper.

His arm twists back to grip hair, thoughts and images hazy bar the all encompassing pleasure as Captain America rocks forward into him, settling in his body like he belongs there.

His dick is so hard he can’t think straight and he’s making these strangled, despairing sounds, rolling backward, relishing how easily he opens up for the touch.

“Still think I should keep the outfit?” Captain America murmurs huskily into his ear, strong hands wrapping around his chest and guiding his body into the next thrust.

“Yes, yes,” he babbles and comes just as he finally gets a solid grip on the material, clutching the uniform tight enough to reveal the whiteness of bone.

He wakes up with a mess to clean up and a flush of embarrasment heating his skin. 

 

  
  


 

“Two tablespoons. Okay, that is exactly what I meant when I said add two-“

“Jay!” Raenia cries abruptly yanking his left hand away from the saucepan when it starts spitting oil. 

She tugs him toward the sink with surprising strength.

It’s the first time she’s ever willingly touched him and he’s too surprised to pull away when she runs the cold water over his left wrist, which is covered with a splattering of burning oil.

Oh, he thinks calmly as she holds it under the running water, eyes wide with panic as she gauges his response. Right. 

“Didn’t you feel that?” she demands, darting around his back to turn down the temperature of the stovetop.

“Yes,” he lies, staring as the oil slides off of his skin without any reaction.

He knows it should hurt, and that he hasn’t burnt his skin deeply enough to destroy any nerve receptors which should signal pain. He can vaguely feel something but that’s mostly just the movement of his arm whenever he uses it or applies pressure. The skin doesn’t get tight around the edges, red and raw like it’s going to blister. 

The flesh is unmarred.

He rubs his thumb across it, feeling the touch faintly as if through too many layers of clothing.

Quickly, before Raenia can inspect the damage, he soaks a washcloth and wraps it haphazardly around his wrist in a parody of an injury.

This is not their first time alone, cooking dinner in his apartment together but it _is_ the first time he’s actually unsettled her. The awareness of it churns through his gut, sick with shame. 

He should have responded better, put on more of a show of discomfort so that he didn’t make her uncomfortable. Now she’s uneasy, fear at the strange reaction colouring the mood of the evening. Her senses are heavily attuned to danger and this unfeeling behaviour is especially telling. 

Why didn’t he react more?

“It’s alright,” he says, struggling to diffuse the situation. “I’ve had worse.”

Raenia doesn’t touch him again and he abandons the saucepan for chopping vegetables instead.

His left wrist lies heavy between his body and the table. Out of sight. 

 

  
  


 

The Starbucks on Broadway just shy of Columbus Circle always seems so busy, even around midday.

There was an attack in Manhattan last night on the Avengers tower and this morning there’s talk about it everywhere. Raenia sent him a link to the news report so he sits in a booth once he’s gotten a coffee, headphones in and head ducked low before clicking the link.

The reporter is standing in front of Avengers tower where a large chunk of building appears to have been torn out of it. The sight of it seems almost unreasonably comical. The woman assures the public that nobody was killed though apparently Captain America jumped from the 28th floor to save an elderly man on the sidewalk from the falling debris. His mouth purses at the knowledge.

None of the Avengers have released any comments so far, but her timing must be perfect or pre-arranged because she catches the arrow shooting guy trying to sneak past with a bag full of groceries.

She calls out to him but bird guy doesn’t turn and abruptly he recalls the articles about his deafness. When the woman chases after him and taps his shoulder he jumps so hard he nearly drops the entire bag.

“Hello, Clint Barton I’m with the Daily News and I was hoping if you could answer some questions about what happened last night?”

The bird guy pays close attention to her mouth as she talks and it only takes a moment to realise it’s because he’s reading her lips. From the frown on his face she’s must be talking too fast.

“We’re working on it. So far we’re assuming it’s Hydra.”

“Hydra?” she echoes. “But that terrorist group died out or was imprisoned once Captain America and the disbanded SHIELD exposed them through millions of secure data uploads to the internet.”

Clint Barton purses his lips. “Yeah, well. Turns out they’re not going down without a fight.”

Bird guy seems to sense he’s said too much because he’s spots the green guy, Bruce Banner gesturing frantically from the lobby and takes off jogging toward him, groceries in hand before the woman can stop him. He waves at the camera over his shoulder before disappearing inside.

She wraps up the interview after that, speculating about the threat of more Hydra attacks and the camera finishes with a final close up of the damaged Tower.

He hears Sam's voice ordering a coffee first and waits while the video automatically changes to another one he might be interested in. It's the one from a couple of days ago, Captain America’s angry outburst in the courtroom.

There’s something about it that he can’t turn away from.

“You know the identity of the Winter Soldier, Captain,” the unctuous lawyer with the arrogant voice demands somewhere off screen. “And yet, you refuse to divulge this pressing information even with the safety of the American public at stake. A real soldier would be discharged for such insubordination.”

It’s a low blow. As if he isn’t a soldier who’s already given up everything for his country. The whispers in the courtroom only confirm their disapproval as Captain America’s eyes flash. He shifts marginally in the stand but it’s enough to make the wood shriek in warning. The power in his hands is fear-provoking as it is astounding.

“I’m telling you what I’ve told you for the last hour,” Captain America replies patiently. “The Winter Soldier is a victim not a criminal. His free will was taken from him, used by Hydra as a tool all those years and I won’t hold him accountable for that.”

The lawyer finally steps into the shot, hair slicked back and sleek suit more expensive than anything else in the room. “It isn’t you who decides who is accountable, Captain, but a court of law. And that is what we’re attempting to do today with your cooperation. What is the winter Soldier’s true identity?”

Captain America’s stony silence is beautiful. 

This is not Captain America the soldier, but the moral compass that keeps him straying too far from what’s right to the compromise of what’s necessary.

“We have ways of forcing you to divulge this information.”

His grip clenches around the phone as Captain America explodes out of his seat so forcefully that that the lawyer jumps backwards, tripping over his own feet to escape even as the superhero does nothing but lean down, eyes afire to grip the wooden railing of the stand. The exclamations of shock sound tinny through the headphones and the image shakes as the person recording the whole thing trembles with excitement, or fear- it’s hard to tell.

“I’d die first,” Captain America vows and the edge to his voice, plus the towering figure he cuts when standing, produces a terrifying reaction.

His expression is dark and gritty, gearing for a fight as the court erupts into chaos and the judge needs to shout to bring silence into the room again. It sets a strange precedent, the public having never witnessed Captain America rage even in defence of another human being. 

The fact that he would do such a thing for the Winter Soldier, a person described as a monster more often than a man, seems to bring unease to the courtroom. The resounding fear is instinctive. 

But Captain America’s righteous fury doesn’t deter him like it does for those witnessing the outburst. In his profession trusting people at face value is its own risk, as is the power of fear in destroying rational thought. Whatever his motives, Captain America’s anger is real and limitless. It humanises him in a way that the public hadn’t anticipated. 

Whatever serum is running through his veins, he is still a person. Still human.

He understands the fear even if it does not reach him. People are nervous since the Hydra attack in Manhattan that happened the week before he returned home. Raenia showed him the clip already but now the video is everywhere. On the news, Youtube, Facebook. People are still tweeting about it. 

The Avengers battled a group of Hydra mercenaries in midtown Manhattan, but it’s the sequence of the fight which is the reason it’s had the most views worldwide. Because the fight is brittle, frayed and shambolic. The Avengers are distracted and fairing badly, working apart rather than together and the strain in their ranks suggests peril. 

Nobody has seen them this disorganised before and for what should be a simple fight. It’s understandable that the clip has gained so much attention. He’s not sure what kind of things a team superheroes fight about between each other but it was enough to unsettle them and throw their attacks out of sync.

Enough that Captain America nearly got hit by a rocket launcher. Before the man in black appeared.

He’s a blur in most of the available footage. One moment the street is littered with battling Avengers and in the next moment he’s there, plucking off Hydra agents, disarming and swiftly knocking them unconscious.

In one seamless effort the man in black puts the Avengers to shame, eliminating the threat in a matter of seconds. From what he’s observed of the team, Black Widow and Captain America are probably the best at hand-to-hand combat but even they would struggle against him. 

The clip shows that he holds back the lethal force his hands are capable of unleashing. He can kill and kill effectively and even for those who aren’t trained to detect these skills, they can still sense the threat of his presence. The unspoken menace.

And this is the man that Captain America is defending in court. It does not surprise him that the public is afraid. Jarring uncertainty bubbles beneath those sitting in the courtroom who have no doubt seen the very same clip he’s remembering. The knowledge that he could do the exact same thing to the Avengers if he wished, this untried, untested man in black.

His identity came out hours after it was first posted to Youtube. It’s the same man from the terrorist Hydra group in DC. The same man who brought down SHIELD Helicarriers in the Potomac river. The same man who tried to kill Captain America on multiple occasions and very nearly succeeded.

The Winter Soldier.

He remembers the strange kind of intimacy between them on the clip. An intimacy that goes beyond two men locked in lethal combat where one almost caused the death of the other. And Captain America even defended the Winter Soldier from Iron Man’s attack afterward.

That intervention wasn’t without weighted meaning. Nearly every news channel has had multiple segments attempting to interpret the strangeness of their interaction. Whatever the reason, the trust is implicit. 

He’s watched the clip more times than he’s prepared to admit, eyes following the trail of Captain America twirling in and out of the press of bodies, the rigidity of his undefended back.

There have been no sightings of the Winter Soldier since. It’s no small wonder that people are on edge. Citizens live in fear of the things they don’t know or understand and they want answers. The courtroom quietens again although the restlessness lingers. 

But they can trust Captain America. He has proven that time and time again. Especially when he breathes heavily, glancing to his left before visibly controlling his tempter and retaking a seat. The lawyer has recovered from his earlier reaction but embarrassment follows the indignity of such a hasty retreat being caught on camera. 

“What are you watching?” Sam asks, finally joining him, coffee in hand and sliding into the opposite side of the booth.

The volume is low enough that his voice filters into the courtroom. “That video of Captain America scaring an asshole lawyer shitless.”

Sam has his styrofoam cup halfway to his lips before hesitating. “So- you agree with him? About the Winter Soldier?”

What kind of question is that? He frowns at the implication of it.

“Yeah. The guy’s a fucking trauma victim. I say if he hasn’t gone on a killing spree since he’s got his brain back then leave him the hell alone. Poor bastard’s gone though enough shit as it is. He doesn’t deserve it.”

The amazement flittering across Sam’s features seems unreal. 

“What?” he demands, agitated now. “You don’t agree? Or you thought I’d tell you to lock him up?”

“Nope, I gotta go with the Captain on this one.” 

While Sam takes a gulp of his coffee, he busies about closing the Youtube app, pulling the headphones out of his ears and winding them neatly around his iPhone before setting it back onto the table.

“I had a sex dream about Captain America the other day,” he admits and Sam chokes on his next mouthful, spitting coffee everywhere.

Helpfully, he snatches several napkins and passes them over to his new friend who slams his coffee back down onto the table and stares blankly ahead for several long drawn seconds. His expression is of one who can’t process the impromptu announcement.

“You and Cap?” he gasps, panting while he struggles to breathe regularly again.

“Yeah. Let’s just say he was less of the polite upstanding citizen that we see on TV. Ten out of ten, would dream again.”

Sam buries his face in his hands, defeated. “Oh God,” he mutters to himself in between the expanse of fingers though it’s loud enough to hear. “This can’t be happening.”

“Like you’ve never had a celebrity sex dream,” he counters, rolling his eyes and drumming his fingers in a frantic tandem.

There are two sessions he’s meant to be teaching later in the afternoon so he’ll work off this restless energy there.

“Yeah, but of Halle Berry not the symbol of American hopes and dreams.”

“Well, maybe subconsciously I want America to fuck me.”

Sam stares at the ceiling as if he’s hoping to eject himself from this planet. He follows this up with a mixture of an outrageous laugh and a pained groan. “Oh, God I can’t- is this a new development? Being into guys?”

That kind of question encourages a half-hearted shrug. “How new is it if it’s your whole life? I like men and women. You got a problem with that?”

He hadn’t thought Sam was homophobic or even biphobic, but first impressions can always deceive. 

“No,” he promises. “One of my best friends is bisexual.”

“Are they hot? Hook me up.”

Sam chokes again, on air this time. “He’s- shit. He’s not ready for that right now, just kinda recovering from a lifelong relationship with a guy.”

“Hmm,” he hums in sympathy before pressing the cup to his lips. “I feel for him.”

The warmth flooding his mouth is something magical. When the pause between replies spreads out too thinly, he looks up at Sam, question in his eyes.

His head is tilted at an angle, deliberating in the same way he stares up at the whiteboard in Fluent City which shows that he’s thinking deeply. 

“Are you fucking with me right now?”

The strain to his voice, struggling to keep emotion out of it suggests just how serious Sam is about this. It’s painfully hopeful somehow as if he’s searching for something beyond free Russian language tips and reasonably polite company.

The uneasy feeling stirs in his chest.

“What?” he wonders, absently. “Ease up. I was being sincere.”

Sam is still frowning but he backs off. “Alright. Guess I was wrong. Sorry, Jay.”

The use of his name bristles unexpectedly, but it’s easier to ignore the way it grates to hear it. The intangible feeling couldn’t be put into words anyway.

“Hey, no problem.”

He intentionally waits until Sam has taken a sizeable sip of coffee again before adding.

“I guess I’ll stick with the star spangled dildo like everybody else.”

Sam very nearly drenches all of Starbucks this time and he can’t help but laugh at all of the dirty looks the other patrons unleash upon them.

He’s still smirking when Sam figures out how to breathe again.

 

  
  


 

He doesn’t actually buy the Captain America dildo despite how readily Raenia offers to link him to several respectable sites that she’s seems to be intimately acquainted with. 

But, God is it tempting though.

 

  
  


 

The thing is he has problems with his own name sometimes. Another after affect of the accident. Some days he’ll be swept up in another universe of thoughts and someone will call his name, more than once and it’s still not enough not to bring up a response.

Sometimes it feels like it’s not his name at all, as if it’s a shirt that doesn’t quite fit right but that usually only happens when he’s disassociating.

Mostly he just forgets.

 

  
  


 

He waits before introducing Sam to Raenia. 

Their friendship is reluctantly cautious, built on the basis that he never pushes, never demands and never asks why she shies away from men. This would be a monumental step outside of that comfort zone and even though he’s certain she will like Sam, there are a lot of reasons for restraint.

They’re making homemade pizza at his place when he finally decides to ask if it’s alright to invite Sam as well. The suggestion is carefully worded with the possibility for saying no.

Raenia hesitates and turns the offer over in her mind, knowing he’s giving her as long as she wants to decide. After a pause, she nods, fingers tight on the knife she’s chopping up tomatoes with. 

He texts Sam with the invitation and by the time he turns up the pizzas are already in the oven and Raenia’s reaction to him is less than desirable.

The forewarning proves worth it when Sam thankfully doesn’t try to shake her hand after they’re introduced and doesn’t invade her space but settles into the neutral zone of the couch instead.

He’s not sure if it’s being alone in the apartment with two men, or what exactly has made her uneasy but nobody calls her out on it to make her even more uncomfortable.

Sam’s already put on a movie that he brought over by the time they join him and when the pizzas are ready, she’s relaxed somewhat marginally. They both carry on the conversation without her and he consciously moves in such a way that she won’t feel boxed in when laying out the food onto the coffee table.

He sits cross-legged next to Sam so that Raenia is closest to the door and nobody is in her way. By the second slice of pizza she’s talking again and Sam doesn’t act like anything is wrong.

They even exchange a few words before everyone calls it a night. 

It’s not a booming success, but it is a nice thought to know that maybe his only two friends might begrudgingly and civilly acknowledge each other’s existence from time to time.

 

  
  


 

The red-head turns up next. He doesn’t know her, not from any session that he’s ever taught but she remains across the street of the Institute after classes sometimes, out of sight and well covered. No one ever notices her as they hurry past, heading in the direction of the subway or home. 

Not even, Raenia and she’s almost as high strung as he is about their surroundings.

He lets it go on for two more sessions, figuring maybe she’s thinking about learning how to defend herself, or she’s stalking one of the women or men, or another trainer. He lets it play out to be sure but hopes that it’s not one of the women he’s teaching, that’s guaranteed not to end well for her. 

He’s very protective of the students who come to the Institute to learn, particularly if it’s on the heels of having a legitimate reason to.

It’s on a session that Raenia doesn’t attend that he finally decides to approach her. He leaves the Institute like always, but slows his pace until his students are at the other end of the street, separated by the safety of traffic lights.

He’s cautious about the encounter though. Any man approaching a lone woman in public, shouldn’t, if the situation doesn’t necessitate it.

Unfortunately, a red headed woman, staking out the Institute warrants a conversation.

“Do you need help?” he wonders carefully. 

This is a difficult situation so it’s best to keep the conversation as basic and to the point as possible. He doesn’t want to intimidate or alarm her as he knows his appearance can be particularly unsettling.

His body is large enough to intimidate most men and for the women he meets in his classes it’s much worse. This is why he sets up very clear physical boundaries, is careful never to raise his voice and never, never makes any demands of them. 

They need his help and every single student he teaches is deserving of his respect. 

The red head actually curses and nearly trips over her own feet in the sudden effort to scramble backward. After that she curses again, but with a lot more spirit. There's something fascinating about it.

“Okay, you can’t tell anyone that happened,” she says. “Ever. Promise me.”

“I promise,” he agrees, bemusedly. “Are you considering learning?”

The woman narrows her eyes, sharply but with a threat in her stance to back it up. He’d seen it before he’d approached. She could just as easily be an enemy or a friend. 

People with chameleon skins are always high-risk.

He gestures slowly toward the building behind them, twisting his arm at an odd angle so that it’s doesn’t even come close to invading her personal space. “I can offer you some free lessons if you want.”

The woman straightens a little and her body slips into another ruse, the ruse of relaxation, loosening her spine and transferring her weight to one leg. For a panicked breath, he thinks that she’s purposely lured him out here and that forces another step of space between them.

The woman frowns, but insists on maintaining the lie her body is broadcasting, stance uneven and arms held loosely at her sides as she tilts her head. The pretence of a non-threat.

“What class do you teach?”

“Self-defence. But I suspect you don’t need much help with that.”

The woman’s smile is slick as oil before a lit match kisses it and he regrets letting curiosity win over common sense. This woman is dangerous, almost as dangerous as he could be when pressed.

“You’re right. Maybe I’ll give Krav Maga a try.”

That pulls forth a pleased grin. He likes the idea of unleashing her on the other instructors. Chad and Todd especially. This woman would teach them some better manners for sure.

“Stop by once you’ve wiped the floor with them.”

Her smile is slow and unfurls like a trap. “Oh I will. My name’s Natasha.”

“Jay,” he allows, but doesn’t extend a hand to shake. They’re both too clever for that.

“Guess I’ll see you around, Jay,” she says, sure as a promise.

“Guess you will.”

 

  
  


 

There are nights when he wakes up soaked in a coating of sweat, spine arching and chasing the memory of movement, an everlasting fight. Whether it’s attack or defence is lost on him but his body seems to remember.

Sometimes he wakes up freezing, fingers trembling with the bite of frost as he scrambles in the dark for another long sleeved shirt to struggle into. Those nights it might take more than three layers to ease the shuddering of his ribs and a trip upstairs to the roof to stare at the expanse of open sky until his body stops its panic response and resettles.

The heat is always better than the cold.

 

  
  


 

He’s walking Raenia home after a session when a man steps out of an alley a few blocks away from Columbus Circle, gun in hand and tries to mug them.

Muggings in New York aren’t that surprising but the way Raenia instantly withers, retreating within herself at the threat of danger is. He feels a flash of anger on her behalf that this is clearly forcing other traumatic events to the surface of her mind.

The man is skinny as a lamppost and it’s not a calculated effort, taking on a man three times his size and an imposing muscular woman. Both of them are bigger than this guy.

“Look,” he starts cautiously. “You don’t want to do this, trust me.”

“Give me your money and I won’t blow your head off,” the guy hisses and his eyes are wild, ashen skin almost transparent and too desperate by half.

He’s not holding the weapon correctly though, guard down and arms tilted at the wrong angle. Easy to manipulate. The man is not at all experienced with this, but the gun has made him bold.

Raenia is already digging erratically through the purse on her hip for her wallet and when the man’s eyes slide towards her, he strikes.

In a moment, he’s incapacitated the man’s arms and snatched the gun. He didn’t know that he was entirely proficient with guns but as soon as it’s within his grasp in less than two seconds he’s removed the magazine full of bullets and disassembled the entire thing into unusable fragments. 

So he obviously knows something about them. 

Yet another thing he doesn’t remember learning.

The man is in fact more surprised by this than anything else. He takes off running down the alley before anyone can speak.

“Are you okay?” he asks, and disposes of pieces of gun by tossing them into various parts of the alley. 

He keeps the firing pin and the bullets and stuffs them into his backpack before approaching Raenia.

The panic that seems to have seized her earlier has lessened now that the gun is gone but her whole body is trembling. She needs to sit down and they find a bus bench before the panic attack fully sets in. 

He speaks to her quietly as she manages to even out her breathing and keeps a safe metre of space between their bodies. Her fingers grip the fabric of leggings like a lifeline, digging into the skin of her knees. 

He measures time to monitor her progress and after two minutes of rattling breaths the spasms of her body shudder to a close. 

The attack drains her once it’s abated and she slumps against the bench with exhaustion, resting most of her weight on to it. 

The anger comes next.

“I just froze,” she says furiously, stuffing the wallet back into her purse. “I went full damsel.”

“No you didn’t,” he insists gently. “You can’t win a fistfight against a gun. Not when he’s standing too far away for you to reach him. What you did was smart. All he wanted was the money. It’s not worth dying over.”

“But you- the way you moved. Almost like-“

He doesn’t enjoy the thoughtful expression on her face as if she’s analysing the connection.

“Let’s get out of here,” he mutters. “It might not be safe.”

“It’s New York,” she scoffs. “Nowhere is safe.”

 

  
  


He’s rethinking Raenia’s words when he climbs the stairwell up to the roof of his apartment. Safety is subjective. He knows that Raenia’s opinion springs from the vestiges of trauma, of being hunted and that he understands her meaning. Even now, he has not fully committed the idea of safety to his apartment.

She may be right. Nowhere is safe.

But when he steps out onto the bare concrete of the rooftop opened up to the stars and the cover of nightfall, a sea of lights glittering below he thinks sanctuaries can exist. In hidden spaces of ravaged chests, in people, in interests that leave room for hearts to grow. In the broken abditory of an open rooftop, unused and abandoned.

He thinks maybe safety and sanctuary aren’t mutually exclusive.

 

  
  


 

Natasha comes back and unsurprisingly, wipes the floor with Chad and Todd. 

She’s leaning against the frame of the door to his training room as the Tuesday lesson has just been wrapped up for the day and nearly all of the men turn to ogle her, even though he knows for a fact that most of them are gay. 

Some are bi too, but apparently they can all appreciate when to be suitably terrified of her.

She smiles at them and since she’s on her feet and unharmed and seemingly very pleased with herself he can accurately guess Chad and Todd are nursing some bruised egos. It’s a very satisfying feeling. She couldn’t have picked two greater subjects. 

Chad and Todd are the biggest dicks in the Institute and he’s had complaints from some of the women who’ve joined his class about their many unwanted advances.

Natasha’s done some good work.

He ends the session five minutes later and when the men all file out of the room, eyes lingering longer than necessary, and not all of them on Nat, is he able to exhale again.

Emir, the lean and chiselled blonde man from Croatia who is always so responsive when he speaks has not been subtle with his attention. He’s not sure what he should be doing about that. 

Maybe nothing will come of it.

“You did a good service today,” he acknowledges and starts packing up.

Natasha inserts herself into the room and helps without asking but her aggressive tactic doesn’t bother him.

“It definitely felt like that,” she agrees. “How did those assholes even get jobs here?”

Her question brings out a scowl. If it was possible to get them fired it’s the first thing he would’ve done since working here. “One of their father’s owns the building.”

“Naturally,” she observes, mouth curling up at one corner to show her displeasure. 

Once he’s done everything that needs to be completed before locking up, he encourages her out the door by waving a hand.

It’s barely midday but the sun is sinking through the windows and illuminating the halls as they automatically head for the stairs rather than the elevator. They exchange a look and it’s easier to trust her less knowing that they think the same way. 

That makes her a threat like no other.

When they’re out on the street she smiles again and flings a scrap of paper at him. Instinctively, he catches it and turns it over when it’s blank on one side. It’s a business card with her name and contact number on it but it seems unnecessary when he already knows who she is.

The Black Widow has been all over the news of late, though unfortunately this time without the delighted pleasure of telling the U.S government to shove it. He’s not entirely sure why she’s approached him, or if he was even her target, but it’s clear that trouble will soon follow.

Trouble follows the Avengers everywhere.

He grunts out an acknowledgement but otherwise doesn’t reply and that seems to satisfy her anyway. 

They part ways after, Natasha waving a pale, deceptively delicate hand in farewell.

He pockets the card and vows never to use it.

 

  
  


 

“Why are we friends?” he asks during their next walk following the end of the class to Columbus Circle Station.

Raenia tenses up considerably at the directness of the question but doesn’t avoid eye contact. The automatic defence mechanisms between them are already winding up for action. They are two wary creatures blinking under the threat of bright lights.

“What?”

“You don’t like men.” And it’s not a question.

“No,” she agrees heavily and it isn’t an answer.

The statement doesn’t change anything between them now that it’s been admitted. They walk in silence for another block as he delicately weaves thoughts and words together.

“So why are we friends? How is this okay? Just level with me I won’t be offended.“

“I don’t know,” she admits. “I’m not really okay with it but it’s easier with you.”

“Why-“

“Every move you make is a declaration,” she explains slowly. “I always know what you’re doing. You’re in my line of vision at every turn and you seem to enjoy contact as much as I do so I’m never worrying you’re going to try and touch me. You never ask and you never push. I don’t trust people.”

“I don’t trust people either,” he says and it feels like a laboured confession.

“Really?” she adds wryly. “The backpack behind your fridge never gave that impression.”

He pauses in the middle of the street. It’s never come up between them before and he never observed her discovery of it. But she’s been alone in his kitchen on more than occasion and it shouldn’t come as a surprise that she found it.

“Oh,” he says, mind overturning to invent a plausible explanation.

“I half-trust you,” she confesses, fingers rubbing idly against her skull. “And that’s more than I can say for anyone else.”

The significance of it is not lost on him.

“I half-trust you too,” he replies, and means it.

Friendship is a strange thing.

 

  
  


 

A call comes in several days later from a private number. He almost doesn’t answer on principle, since not many people have his personal contact details, or typically communicate with him in this way. Texting always seems easier.

It could be the Institute though. Sometimes Chad switches it over to private so he can check if instructors are using their phones during sessions. It has already been firmly established that he’s a dick, so it’s safer to answer than to ignore it lest he get into more trouble.

It’s not Chad.

“You didn’t call,” she says as if he should instantly gather the context of a past conversation upon demand. 

He does, but that doesn’t mean he’s pleased about it.

“I didn’t have anything to say to Black Widow.”

Natasha offers a flippant noise of indulgence that breeds a deeper mistrust. He does not ask how she acquired this number.

“That’s too bad,” she says, conversationally, her tone light but in the true spirit of performance. “Because we should be friends.”

That’s not a reasonable idea; it’s an occupational health and safety hazard. 

“Why?”

Natasha laughs as if she’s enjoying this back and forth between them, or maybe the fanciful notion that someone wouldn’t want to be her friend. She is a celebrity after all. He doubts that she hears no very often, for a variety of different reasons. 

Most of them painful.

“Because I think we’d make great friends, don’t you, Jay? Besides if I keep turning up at your classes the tabloids are bound to start noticing.”

The sinister undercurrents of her words are ultimately revealed like a snake striking unexpectedly from the underbrush. 

“You’re threatening me,” he confirms heavily, eyes sliding shut and lifting his face to the ceiling in a means of entreating some higher power.

Mostly he just wants to be left alone. The world doesn’t seem to think that’s an acceptable option though.

“What? Of course not. I mean, well yes I was, but that wasn’t intentional. Mostly.”

He would’ve already hung up by now if it weren’t for the genuine frustration lacing her words. Natasha’s actually upset that this isn’t going the way she’d anticipated.

So he sighs instead. “I don’t trust you.”

Her voice drifts into the territory of amusement again. “I wouldn’t like you if you did.”

Well now they’ve cleared things up.

“We’ll meet for coffee. Tomorrow,” he decides.

That satisfies her to some degree. “We’re going to be great friends, I can already tell.”

“Была́ не была́,” he mutters bitterly in Russian.

He doesn’t anticipate the sharp reply.

“только хорошие вещи,” Natasha bites back and hangs up just as quickly.

 

  
  


 

He rocks up at Sam’s apartment on Friday night after leaving the Institute. After knocking, he listens patiently to the sound of a deadbolt sliding open as Sam peeks through the smallest crack in the door imaginable.

With that kind of greeting some of the agitation within him dwindles. Should he have texted first? Does Sam have company?

“Jay,” he exclaims, glancing uneasily over his shoulder and he does have company. 

This was a mistake.

“You’re busy,” he observes. “I should’ve called first. I just wanted to know… your Russian friend- is her name Natasha?”

A toilet flushes in the back of Sam’s apartment and he’s distracted by the click of the lock as the door opens and the fresh smell of male reaches his senses. 

It’s some non-descript body wash and deodorant but it’s the smells beneath it, those that cling to skin, which are the most alluring. The combination of pencil shavings, lead, traces of blood and the metallic tang from the frequent handling of titanium alloys. 

Maybe he works with construction. The barest hint of sweat is a personalised letter of natural scents. There’s something oddly familiar in it and his mouth actually floods with saliva as if he’s struggling to taste.

The light footsteps as they approach sound keenly practised which suggests the construction worker is more heavyset than he might indicate. The expression on Sam’s face could only be identified as full-blown panic.

There’s a strong pull inside him, an instinct he hasn’t felt since the accident, a furtive urge to just push past Sam and storm wildly into his apartment. So that he can see this man’s face.

The need is a strange one and he fights it, planting his feet stubbornly where they are. Sam’s recovered the use of words by then.

“Running to the store for a sec,” he calls out, seizing his jacket off the hook and keys from the table before quickly pushing at his chest to force him backward.

He allows it, but the urge not to move remains strong.

“Sam?” the man calls and his voice, there’s something about his voice. “What-“

“Shit. Shit. Go, go, go!” Sam begs, nudging harder and he seems to come alive again at the request. 

They’re in the elevator when he listens to the man swing the door wide to peer out after them. He hesitates in the frame for a second, probably staring down the empty hallway in confusion. Sam’s sudden departure is more than suspect.

When the man shifts his weight and carefully turns, door snapping shut behind him, he realises that he can breathe again.

“Who was that?” he asks and the unsettling echo of reverence is layered in every tremor of his voice.

“The friend I told you about,” Sam mutters somewhat evasively, without making eye contact.

“Your single bisexual friend.”

“My single bisexual friend who’s still recovering from a lifelong relationship,” Sam warns meaningfully to steer his attention elsewhere. 

As if he’s unexpectedly transformed into some kind of thirsty sexual creature that cares little for other people’s feelings. When in reality it’s been months since he’s actually _touched_ another human being. Let alone had sex. The suspicion in Sam’s eyes seems a little unfair. 

And undeserved.

“He smelt familiar.”

“He smelt familiar?” Sam demands, rubbing at his forehead. “Are you fucking- of course you could _smell_ him from the fucking doorway. This is just- fuck. This can’t be real. Are you sure it was just familiar? Are you sure that you don’t know him?”

The line of questioning offends him somehow. “No. I don’t know him.”

Sam sighs but it’s a challenging, aggravated sound. “Fine, whatever. Not like it matters. Of course not.”

He pauses a second as the elevator reaches the first floor. “Shit. I left my wallet.”

“Let’s go ba-“

“Nope,” Sam insists cheerfully. “Looks like you’re buying us beer.”

“Us? I’m not buying you both beer.”

Sam nudges at his spine to encourage him forward. “Fine. You’re going to buy beer for me since I will actually be able to get drunk from it and then you’re going to tell me how you know about Natasha.”

He scowls as they emerge outside into the bitter evening air, regretting giving Sam the courtesy of a warning about Natasha since he’s acting so cagey right now. 

This feels more like a punishment than gratitude and Sam steers him under an awning before he can step out from the curb to cross the road.

“This way,” he says all casual when it’s clear Sam is keeping him out of sight from his apartment window above.

“You know you do a lot of weird shit right? And what exactly am I getting out of this arrangement?”

Sam rolls his eyes but his grin is playful and confident. “You’re the one who came to see me, man. You get the delight of my company.”

What a smart-ass. 

“I regret ever talking to you.”

“Aww, I hate you too man.”

He still buys Sam the beer though. 

 

  
  


 

“So when you said you had a friend you wanted to get the upper hand over you neglected to mention that friend was Black Widow.”

Sam nearly drops the six-pack of Miller Chill. “Jesus, fuck. Say it any louder, Jay. I don’t think all of New York heard you.”

“Dick,” he insists, but still glances around the bottle shop anyway. 

There’s nobody in there but the cashier and they’re at the opposite end of the store, not within hearing distance at all. Sam still turns in a full circle to be certain they’re alone. He might laugh if the situation wasn’t already so serious.

“Yes, Natasha is the person constantly making fun of me in Russian,” Sam admits, keeping his voice low anyway as if she might be hiding in the ceiling.

It’s a struggle not to roll his eyes. “The one you’re into. The super spy.”

Sam looks like he’s about ready to throw something at his head. “Shut the hell up. What I want to know is how you figured that out.”

They head over to the cashier together.

“Wasn’t that difficult. Since she showed up at the Institute. Is she stalking you or stalking me?”

Sam fumbles the beer and nearly misses the counter altogether. The bottles clink together in protest before he manages to catch them. The smug smile lifting the corners of his mouth seem overfull of unnecessary pride since he’s the one who nearly dropped the beers in the first place.

He loses it a second later as another realisation strikes him. 

“Shit. Cap needs to know about this. We promised to back off-“

“Back off of what?” he wonders when it looks like Sam’s just going to keep talking to himself.

Sam startles violently, eyes flicking guiltily toward him as if remembering that he’s still standing there and that he’s about to buy him alcohol. 

“Never mind. Superhero stuff.”

“Right,” he agrees disbelievingly and hands over the correct amount of money when the cashier rings it up. “How did you become friends with superheroes anyway? Happy accident?”

Sam tenses incrementally which means he’s holding back the truth. “Something like that. Look, just don’t worry about Nat right now. She’s mostly harmless.”

“Yeah?” he wonders grimly. “Somehow I doubt that.” 

 

  
  


The threat Natasha poses remains long after he reaches the rooftop and sits under the stars for an hour. 

He resorts to climbing atop the highest point of the building as if he’s trying to climb into the atmosphere itself and something about the far reaching space and the high vantage point finally does something.

The panic swirling in his gut subsides and a centre of calm spreads with every breath.

He will meet with the Black Widow and hopefully the exchange will be enough for her to finally lose interest.

Whatever strange interest in him she might be operating under.

 

  
  


 

He doesn’t want Natasha to be right when they meet in the Upper East Side for coffee before his 3pm class at Fluent City starts.

But she’s deliberately enchanting and he wants to resent her for it out of a paltry need to keep his inner circle as small as possible. So far, it’s only expanded to include Raenia and Sam and even that’s seems like it’s pushing it.

Natasha is unconcerned by his intentionally lacking social graces and orders a mocha with extra sugar after he’s ordered a cappuccino.

“So let’s talk about Steve,” she says once they’ve claimed a booth of their own.

He doesn’t fail to recognise the prime choice of location: in sight of all the possible exits in the cafe. Whether it’s for her safety or his is an entirely different matter.

“Who the hell is Steve?” he echoes blankly, slouching imposingly in the seat. “Oh. You mean Captain America? Is that why you called me here? To complain about your teammates?”

Natasha’s face is relaxed and carefully blank in a way that warns him her feelings are absolutely contrary. “Yes. That is why I called you here. Friends share things right? And what I want to share is how ridiculous Steve Rogers is.”

It’s not exactly fresh information. 

Captain America and his ridiculous face and body and unwavering morals are plastered over every inch of the news. Of course the symbol of America manages to make the headlines as much as possible. People want to hear all about his struggle defrosting in a light-hearted, fun way that they can chuckle about superiorly and immediately forget about a day later. 

Oh, Captain America can’t use a microwave? Ha ha. 

He’s not sure what’s more infuriating, that the public actively dismisses Captain America’s emotional wellbeing and social vulnerability or that they seem to be laughing at him for it.

Out of all the Avengers, Captain America is probably the best role model but there’s also a part of him that vehemently denies the truth of that kind of label. Something about the firm set of Steve Rogers’ jaw says he’s a handful. Not quite what people think when they see the red, blue and white light up their television screens. 

The fact that his weapon is a shield kind of speaks for itself. 

Steve Rogers is most likely a fucking idiot. He can sympathise with her on many levels.

“Right.”

“Seriously. He used his body as a bulletproof vest the other day in some misguided noble attempt to protect the team. Two hours later and his skin pushed out sixteen bullets.”

Jesus. His left fist clenches abruptly, an automatic, unconscious action. Heroes never seem to know how to take it easy. It does not surprise him in the slightest. That’s exactly what Captain America would do.

“Don’t say that too loud. Sarah Rogers is already turning over in her grave.”

Natasha’s hand freezes sharply across the table before her eyes slowly focus on his. There’s the distinct feeling of a cage closing around him.

“What- did you say?” she wonders sweetly, eyes dark with promise.

“I’ve got a large cap for Jay?” the barista calls out, interrupting the unforeseen ferocity of her expectant eyes.

“That’s me,” he announces, relieved for the chance to put distance between her and the intense scrutiny for a second. 

He’s said something wrong again, something of more value than she’s willing to admit. 

“Is it?” Nat wonders ominously, as he slides out of the seat and retreats to the barista counter, the words brash enough to ring violently in his ears like an accusation.

For the rest of their conversation, he will have to be more careful. He’d rather not attract Black Widow’s notice if it can be avoided. This coffee meet up is turning out to be just as dangerous as anticipated. 

His skin still feels cold even after the hot beverage ends up clutched desperately between trembling fingers.

 

  
  


 

 **So did she mention me?** Sam texts, when he’s leaving Fluent City to head home. The lesson had been particularly long but at least there was no dealing with the Ivy League meatball today.

That had been a blessing.

**Yes, that’s why she wanted to be friends so we could gush about your sweet brown eyes together.**

**Excuse you, my eyes are fucking magical.**

Well, maybe they are a little bit. Not like he’s ever going to admit that upon pain of death though. Sam would probably be an ass about it.

**Then put them to good use and ask her out already. Maybe then she’ll stop stalking me.**

**IT’S NOT LIKE THAT**

Bullshit, he thinks but drops it.

**Dinner and movie?**

**Seen the new star wars?**

He’s not even sure if he’s seen the _old_ star wars. It’s not plucking at his memory at all. As if he’s clutching at smoke and trying to will it into something tangible.

**Haven’t seen any.**

**Marathon?**

**Yep. You bring beer this time.**

**I will bring a normal amount and if you don’t get drunk you can’t bitch about it.**

As if he’s ever even been drunk. 

He doesn’t mind though. The ritual is still enjoyable anyway.

 **Fine.** He replies a second later. **Bring popcorn too.**

Sam sends the sunglasses emoji in reply. 

So that probably means he’s got it covered.

 

  
  


 

They stop for coffee after the latest session, doubling back a couple of blocks to stop at one of Raenia’s favourite cafés and they’re heading back to the station, coffees in hand when they end up passing the Congregation Shearith Israel, the oldest synagogue in New York.

There are two men standing out the front and one appears to be hassling the other after he’s descended the steps to go home. The man is spouting some hateful bullshit at the Jewish man, the type that makes his insides clench to hear and he doesn’t really think about it. He just pulls out a nickel from the pocket of his coat, aims, and flicks it.

The projectile hits the man right in the centre of his forehead and he’s so surprised he drops his grip on the Jewish man’s arm. After being released he instantly backs away, putting safe distance between himself and his aggressor. 

Before Raenia can comment, he’s darting forward to interrupt.

“Pick on someone your own size,” he snaps. “Or fucking educate yourself, you ignorant, anti-semetic piece of shit.”

The man is holding his hand against his forehead, pale and less vocal with his bigotry now there's a bigger audience around to shut him up. He stumbles away with a furious glance over his shoulder.

“I’m really sorry, sir. Are you alright?” he asks the man who’s rubbing at his wrist, distractedly.

“I’m fine, thank you.”

Raenia offers to buy him coffee, but he politely declines, divulging that he lives in Queens and if he doesn’t leave now he won’t be home in time for dinner.

They apologise again and the man waves them on, smiling even and seemingly less unsettled now as he hurries around the corner toward the underground entrance to the subway. 

“I can’t believe that people like that still exist,” Raenia says, once he’s out of earshot. “What a piece of garbage. You should’ve used a half dollar on his fathead instead.”

After what just happened, he’s inclined to agree with her. It's a small miracle he didn't clock the greaseball since he certainly wanted to.

“That was some aim, though,” Raenia observes. “How did you even see that in the dark let alone actually hit him?”

“Luck,” he offers untruthfully.

Raenia does not believe him.

 

  
  


 

Emir appears to lose patience with no acknowledgement of the sweeping suggestion of his eyes or lingering touches whenever he asks for help during sessions since he waits behind at the end of Tuesday’s lesson to confront him.

He’s in the middle of arranging the class into a neat room again for the next instructor to use, back exposed to the door when a significant heat presses meaningfully into his space.

“You know,” Emir says, breath fanning out against his ear. “I actually live a few blocks from here.”

There is heat beneath his breastbone, the languid acknowledgement of stirring attraction as he carefully slips out of the cage of Emir’s open body. He’s not actually touching but the intimacy of it is still too much.

Desire licks its way across his stomach, wrenching hungrily into his gut as he regards Emir silently. The fervour of sex unfurls in the air around them, tapering the moment to a shared breath.

There’s no real reason why he shouldn’t consider the offer. They’re generally not supposed to sleep with students but Chad and Todd brag about the women they bring home as if it’s anything more than imagined egos and illogical male fantasy. 

But Emir is beautiful. 

His features are both strong and delicate, chiselled jaw and cheekbones, soft blonde hair that caresses the flinty sea of his eyes, puckish mouth curved in an invitation.

 _Not skinny enough_ something foreign supplies, unbidden, in the hidden recesses of his mind where true memories lie. It’s shocking, the unexpected declaration as if another dormant part of his brain briefly slipped back into consciousness.

Not as skinny as who? he wonders, but nothing rises up to claim the answer. He’s abruptly deserted in the fog of his own mind again.

The unforeseen eldritch of another voice, another thought emerging from within, belonging and not belonging, settles the matter.

These paved lines should not be blurred. 

“We’re not meant to fraternise with students,” he says eventually with as much gentleness as rejection can offer. “It’s not a good idea. I could lose my job.”

He doesn’t speak again, but allows Emir to process the significance of the reply. If he is too encouraging the yearning won’t fade.

Carmen’s laugh rattles around his head as she stumbles for the door again, fabric settling onto naked skin.

_You’re a machine. You’re a machine._

He closes his eyes against the replay of memory, protests against it slowly, until the surging waves of nausea ripple into a calm sea.

“Okay,” Emir replies, but his voice is mild, accepting as if he knew all along what the answer would be. “I understand.”

They don’t touch. Emir shuffles backward, a tender retreat and the air of need between them blows away, flimsy and insubstantial as it always had been.

He doesn’t regret it. The wanting. But maybe now he understands it better. There’s something precise about his longing as if it’s always been a fixed point on a map stretched across time before his body ever learnt what attraction was.

He’s carrying a torch for someone he doesn’t remember.

The cruelty of it is not lost on him. Somehow, he knows what the kiss of that kind of spite tastes like. Knows it intimately.

Not all of his bruises can be seen either.

But at least he’s aware of what he’s waiting for now. Hoping for that fixed point to come spinning into his orbit again so he can hold tight with both hands and never let go.

 

  
  


 

The sudden dick pic floodgate leak is admittedly a strange tactic to discredit a superhero witness in the middle of a trial but it’s probably not the weirdest thing New York’s Justice System has had to deal with in the past.

He’s in the middle of grading a quiz that some of his Russian students took this week to see how they’re fairing in the course. Which, is why he’s sitting on the edge of the table away from Natasha, Raenia and Sam. He hasn’t marked Sam’s answers yet but he’s doing very well so far in picking up the nuances of the language.

Hopefully this pigtail pulling revenge he’s striving for with Natasha is worth it. It would probably be easier to just ask her out on a date but apparently that approach is too simplistic for Sam.

The written work is probably the worst part about this job. If it was just about flapping his mouth for several hours a day in multiple languages, he’d be set for life.

Raenia and Natasha, only met an hour ago but are, naturally, instantly delighted with one another. They’re in the middle of an enthusiastic conversation that Sam is not privy to. He ends up squished at the other end of the shitty couch, but Natasha’s thigh is pressed tightly against his, more contact than politely necessary so Sam seems pretty content with the situation.

He’s about half way through the classes’ papers when the crappy talk show they’re watching starts to get interesting.

“And would you believe it Captain America is in the headlines today, not because of his controversial outburst in the courtroom last week, or his recent coming out to the public, but courtesy of a particularly inspired hacker who accessed Steve Rogers’ personal photos and released several dick picks this morning. And it’s clear to see that that super serum still left him lacking in some areas. Not much of a symbol of America is he?”

That has him looking up from the blur of messy handwriting to watch the television screen. And yes, that is definitely someone’s dick.

“Holy shit,” Sam crows and he’s half turning away and half unable to stop looking.

Natasha’s leaning forward with both a clinical and not so wholesomely invested interest.

Their reactions are enough to induce an eye roll or two especially when Raenia seems like she’s seen and heard the greatest and worst information of her existence. She’ll probably be raving about this for the rest of the week, angrily defending Captain America’s privacy until she runs out of breath.

“It’s fake,” he says absently, turning back to the papers. “Steve’s is bigger.”

It so simple to slip back into the zone of work that the pointed silence in the room doesn’t immediately sink in. It does become more noticeable when someone mutes the TV and Nat slams the remote down onto his paperwork like a statement.

“What did you just say?” Natasha demands and the way she leans into him does not bode well.

Heart beating faster at the attention, he puts down the pen once it’s clear everyone has been violently diverted by the passing comment.

“Yeah seriously, Jay,” Raenia continues. “Did you just say that Steve Roger’s dick is bigger? As in you’ve _seen_ it? As in you know from _experience_?”

The expressions on all of their faces are enough to bring on a headache. He sighs and rubs at the offending area, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment of peace. 

“I mean, c’mon, it’s so obvious. This guy’s junk is barely worth staring at and there’s no birthmark on his hip.”

When nobody seems to agree it only serves to increase the rapid agitation fixed in his limbs. Somehow, it’s more frustrating that they’re not getting this and not the fact that they evidently believe him.

“How do you know that, Jay?” Sam finally asks and his tone is even and calm, distinctly non-threatening.

The sound of his therapist voice expeditiously enforces reality again. How does he know this? When no immediate answer comes forth, he flushes and realises what’s happening.

He did it again. Talking about things with a confidence that he has no reliable justification for possessing. This is the effects of the accident rearing up again when he speaks perfect French but can’t explain how he learnt it, or when he knows World history like the back of his palm, the 1920’s-40’s in particular, but can’t seem to remember where the obsession with that chunk of the past came from.

The whirring noise echoes louder for a minute, piercing through the careful concentration employed to ignore it and the sound threatens to tear him apart.

“Guess I was wrong,” he admits eventually, shrugging with a casualness that he does not feel and turning away, spine rigid with tension.

Raenia’s frowning at him and Sam and Natasha seem to be trying not to look at each other. 

Though Sam is not convincing about it.

 

  
  


 

It doesn’t matter that it’s announced the next day that the photo is fake and had been staged by a desperate fan attempting to gain Captain America’s attention.

Captain America doesn’t take any legal action against him though a lot of people, the women in his class, included when they discuss it after the lesson, think that he should have.

But Captain America has always been about protecting everyone but himself.

The admission doesn’t make him feel any better.

 

  
  


 

He gets confused sometimes, because of his accident. 

Sometimes he rolls over in bed in the middle of the night, arm searching for the stubborn warmth of a tiny frame; the product of every illness under the sun, bones that might snap under the pressure of hands and an dogged strength that can hold the whole world up on its own shoulders, jolting awake when he doesn’t find it.

Other times, he flings an arm out to grip onto a broad chest, physical muscle made to match the strength within, almost too big to stretch his arm across and he startles when there’s only the empty mattress to greet him.

He thinks he might be aching for two different people, but even more unlikely is the impression that they’re one and the same.

Yeah, sometimes he gets confused.

 

  
  


 

The hunt for the Winter Soldier doesn’t lessen up in the tabloids and the controversy between the strangely affable interaction between the assassin and Captain America seems to be on everyone’s mind.

The situation worsens when the photos come out. An anonymous source sends them into the tabloids and the next day pictures of the Winter Soldier surreptitiously leaving Captain America's apartment in the gear that he’s become famous for are on every newspaper and magazine. The timestamps have it as the day he rescued the Avengers from the Hydra attack.

Speculations go wild after that. Accusations that Captain America and the Winter Soldier have been living together for several months flourish, further aided by the fact that Captain America refuses to comment. 

There’s a notable implication that they were more than roommates as if Captain America has betrayed America by using his genitals outside of the interest of the American people. 

The articles might be laughable if so many people didn’t immediately get behind them.

“Something’s going on with him and Steve Rogers,” Raenia announces during their shared walk to the subway station after another lesson.

She’s really improved since she started and actually managed to throw Layla on her ass tonight. 

He’s never been prouder.

“What does that even mean?” he says without enthusiasm.

“What it means is that they’ve clearly got some kind of partnership or deal or whatever going on or they’re hooking up.”

He tries to picture it for a moment: the merciless trauma victim that’s a threat to every single living thing under the sun, including himself, and America’s dancing monkey soldier and honourable wellspring that never dries up to the delight of every armed force known to man. _Those_ men actually getting horizontal with each other. 

Since no one has seen an actual full picture of the Winter Soldier’s face (he tends to wear unforgiving looking masks) it’s not an easy image to make.

The attempt still brings out a hefty laugh though.

“Do you honestly think that goody two shoes Captain America would ever taint himself with the kind of PR shitstorm that would unleash?” 

As soon as the words are out of his mouth they taste of perjury. The Captain America everyone knows and loves is a fabrication and nothing more. It’s unfair to accept that false image as something representative of the man beneath the costume.

Raenia seems offended such a thing could ever spill from his mouth. “Somehow I don’t think he’s like that at all.”

“No,” he agrees heavily. “He’s not.”

“I hope wherever he is he’s safe and happy,” Raenia says eventually after a pause.

“Who? Captain America?”

“No the other guy. I don’t like to use the name Hydra gave him, it doesn’t seem right somehow.”

He thinks about that and she’s got a fair point. Why does the media insist on keeping the name that weaponised him? 

“You’re right. It doesn’t.”

“We should give him another name then,” she says. “Something positive.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know what do you call a guy who’s been tortured beyond the point of humanly possible, modified and brainwashed into doing unspeakable things, put on ice until needed again over a span of seventyish years and to top things off has no recollection of personal autonomy or his own identity?”

He rubs at his left arm to chase away the sudden chill there. 

“Cursed,” he says firmly as Raenia’s eyes harden.

“No,” she insists. “Blessed.”

“Blessed?” he repeats with an incredulous laugh. “You call that blessed?”

“No. I call that survival,” Raenia says with an unforgiving edge. “He’s still standing isn’t he? And he looked well in that video, like he’s eating enough and taking care of himself. Plus he didn’t kill anyone either and knowing his talents that’s nearly expected of him at this point. I’d say that’s a fucking miracle.”

He scowls but can’t argue with her logic. But it’s not an easy topic to make room for optimism, that’s for sure.

“Well, wherever he is, hooking up with Captain or not, I hope he’s still getting laid.”

“Sounding a little bitter there, Jay?”

“No,” he promises, because he’s not. “I hope he’s happy too.”

“Yeah. With any luck Captain America might be able to call off the media hellhounds.”

Captain America might have some power but he doubts to that kind of extent.

“And the U.S government. They’re out for his blood too, don’t forget. Or they want to put him to use.”

“Pigs,” she spits, disgusted by the thought.

“Everybody wants a piece of him.”

“What do you think he wants a piece of?” Raenia wonders thoughtfully, sneakers scuffing the sidewalk and sending rocks skittering.

He considers the question for a moment. What would a person like that want after being denied the most basic human needs for so many years?

“The world,” he decides. “After being starved so long I bet he’s hungry for it.”

Raenia manages a smile. “I bet he’s hungry for everything. Though I guess that’s another one of those things about winter isn’t it?”

“What?”

“It always passes.”

 

  
  


 

Somehow, instantly, he knows that the man has come for him. 

He’s prowling through the night, this world a second skin to slip into when the man twists out from behind a snarled tree and looms into his path.

The features are familiar since they’ve been following him since 62nd street but he’d lumped the shock of receding hair stuffed into a drab suit, a man just out of his prime, with the rest of the evening rush shuffling toward home.

Their paths had diverged once he’d cut through Central Park and the innocuous footsteps behind him had been harried but otherwise uninteresting. 

The man is already spitting words at him, fast and violent in Russian, a smattering of random phrases that echo savagely in his ears. He clenches in fear, only muscle memory of a greater terror lurking within.

He spits with the finality of a deathblow, hateful energy spilling out before the silence immerses them again.

There’s expectation smothering the air and the whirring sound is back, ringing like a warning bell as a breath passes. And another. And another.

And nothing happens.

“Freight car?” he repeats perplexedly and the terrible oath vacates the man in a ferocious rush as he deflates.

For a moment, their shock mirrors one another, mouths parted, wearing masks of identical alarm, as the nature of the attack proves unfruitful. Equally astounded by the denied results.

The man recovers a wild desperation that forces his body forward, face warped by fury and terror. The opportunity this man, this hateful, manic thing hoped for does not come.

He punches him in the throat without using his left, never his left because there are too many dead in this world already and watches the thing crumple at his feet.

Then he runs.

 

  
  


 

He climbs the staircase to the rooftop and stays there. For most of the night until the temperature drops low enough that his breath can be seen in the frigid air.

He doesn’t move though. Doesn’t retreat to the warmth of his apartment. He can’t think there. He’s too boxed in, too constricted for the freedom of true introspection.

This is where he can think best.  


And what he thinks about is the truth.

The truth is this: he knows that this life is a lie.

He’s not stupid. He is a man who warrants surveillance living in a crappy two-inch apartment, a man without a gun in his pocket who’s always armed, a man who is attacked by ghosts in the night that expect him to heel at their feet while they wrap a noose around his neck.

There are too many gaps to fall into, too many things he can’t know but will know anyway, too many reasons for this false world to fall apart.

But it is easier. That much is true. 

He’s alive, healthy even with decent meals to fill his belly and a warm place to rest his head at night. His pockets aren’t empty and his mouth is always running. There are people here, in this world, people who make it real. 

He knows there are some things missing. There always are but only one loss aches in the quiet spaces of his ribs, in the missing pieces of his jigsaw mind.

There is no fixed point. So he orbits around routine instead, untethered but somehow waiting. Always waiting for a great unknown to take hold and claim what he’s already freely given.

That space can only be filled with smaller unworthy things, which leave cracks and splinters. Or it can grow bigger, a gaping, hungry thing that will destroy itself. 

There is solely the doubled edge of the blade. Two sharpened sides. Only different wounds.

It’s two am when he finally unlocks the door of his apartment and retreats to the bedroom, crawling under the thick blankets. 

For now, the lie is enough. 

 

  
  


 

Normally he doesn’t cut through the Bridle Path once sessions are finished for the day because of the runners who choke up the dirt track late in the afternoon but since he caught Sam at the corner of West 69th street and they’ve got plans to hit Rudy’s Bar & Grill together, they decide to risk it to save time. 

Ten minutes later, it’s painfully clear they miscalculated. There’s a small crowd clogging up the area, surrounding some monstrous beefcake whose head is bent low in the middle of some activity or other so that his face is hidden.

At first glance he could be a prominent bodybuilder. Or a famous athlete or something because a girl with bubble-gum hair darts between them, hip-checking Sam before he can offer a warning when he senses her coming and shifts out of the way. 

She breathlessly spits out an apology while Sam gets his footing back with a curse and the scrap of paper in her hands flaps like a white flag through the air as she runs.

So the beefcake is definitely famous. He peers closer with only a small hint of curiosity. Celebrities are not an endangered species in New York; he’s seen his fair share on the news and on the sidewalks before. Enough of them to take the initial awe out of the experience.

The flash of blonde hair through the tight press of bodies prompts a gut wrenching reaction that is more intuitive than logical. 

He’s striding forward before Sam notices the detour, stomping over towards the mixed group of fans: old, young, multiples genders and ethnicities who give no indication of what type of famous person this man might be.

The shape of his jaw and the breadth of his shoulders slips through the rush of bodies, announcing flushed skin and what is clearly exercise gear. There’s a flash of sympathy pressing into his skull, at the realisation this celebrity only wanted to go for a casual run through Central Park before he was stopped by fans.

The group parts slightly and the side profile of his face is revealed along with a breath of conversation.

“Who do I make this out to, ma’am?“ 

Her reply is snatched away in the flow of voices but he’s focused on the smile holding the man’s face as if it’s keeping it together. Somehow, with a brief flash of surety he knows that it isn’t real, that it’s the touch of distant politeness that means never treating anyone with anything less than respect but continually maintaining detachment. 

There’s nothing genuine in that smile.

When the crowd parts, he pushes his way through until he’s standing next to the man and then he’s certain.

“I know you,” he says faintly.

“Yes,” the man agrees without looking up. “I’m Captain America.”

That’s no it. That can’t be it. There’s something more. There’s something-

“No.” The declaration is persistent now. “I _know_ you.”

Captain America, Steve Rogers, finally looks up, pushing hair out of his face as he attempts to locate the speaker. 

There’s an ancient tiredness to the set of his shoulders, a burden of too many years carried in his eyes that affirms how much he truly is a man out of his own time. If all the stories are accurate he’s a man pushing past his hundreds, buried in ice for seventy years of his life. Even young as he looks now, in spirit he’s a true geezer, trapped in a forgotten past.

The smell of him hits a moment later. He’s the man from Sam’s apartment those few weeks ago; the one he’d guessed was a construction worker. To be fair, it’s not unreasonable that he made those conclusions since people don’t typically smell of the metal from handling a superhero shield every day. 

Not unless they’re Captain America.

He waits impatiently for those blue eyes to establish contact and when they do, Captain America startles hard enough to drop the pen and paper before a mess of emotions crumple his expression and his face shuts down.

That is not a reaction he expected, but it’s enough to confirm his suspicions aren’t utterly baseless. Captain American does know him. 

Somehow.

“Jay!” 

He turns toward Sam’s approaching voice before Captain America, Steve Rogers, can answer and when Sam throws a cheerful arm around his neck, he soundlessly permits it. 

“Wow, thanks for the help back there, man. You owe me a beer at least for that. Now we going to Rudy’s Bar & Grill or what?”

Captain America’s mouth is slack with dismay as he stares at Sam’s arm around him. There’s a painful edge of betrayal in the rigidness of his stance and it’s not something he likes the look of.

“Sam?” Captain America says, staring at him blankly as if he’s not sure he’s got the right guy, and then, “Rudy’s? That old speakeasy is still open?”

“Shit, Steve,” Sam hisses finally observing the superhero’s presence and his entire body stiffens with contrition. “I can explain. This isn’t what it looks like or what you’re thinking. I promise I was just trying to help.”

That unsettling feeling is back and he ducks out from underneath the warm pressure of Sam’s arm, pulling away from him.

“What’s with you?” he wonders. “You two know each other? What are you beating your gums about?”

Confusion possesses Sam’s face before he’s glancing at Captain America and the way he’s shifting his feet and eschewing eye contact is full of deception markers. The crowd is more than interested in what’s progressing and surrounds them silently, watching everything unfold.

“What?” 

“He’s asking what you’re talking about,” Steve Rogers mutters in a low, unhurried tone. 

The soft interjection only escalates the mounting irritation within him. There’s something missing here. The soft whirring sound is back again.

“Look, pal. I know you’re a hero and all and trying to help, but I don’t need you to talk for me.”

Steve Rogers’ forehead crinkles as he clenches his eyes shut, tipping his head back and making an agonised sound as he raises his hands in surrender. 

They’re not entirely steady and it seems strange that a superhero would be shaking from a random conversation in Central Park. Sam keeps switching his attention between them, scratching nervously at his chest.

“How did you two meet each other?” Steve Rogers eventually manages after inhaling a deep breath but he’s not asking out of polite curiosity. 

Not anymore.

“So you do know me,” he presumes.

“Excuse me are you the Falcon?” a middle aged man at the back of the group asks Sam, headphones still jammed in his ears from his own interrupted run.

Steve Rogers seems like he’s suffering an internal dilemma before turning away completely.

“No. You’re mistaken,” he says, answering both questions like he’s spitting out teeth just as Sam shakes his head rapidly. “…I’m sorry I have to go.“ 

He bends down to pick up the pen and paper, finishes signing it and hands it back to the owner.

“Sam, you’ll be hearing from me.”

Captain America waves awkwardly at the small crowd he’s drawn in and takes off jogging, at a speed that none of them could possibly follow or match. The wince on Sam’s face is an exact picture of how it personally feels to be on Captain America’s shitlist. 

It’s not a status worth envying.

“You didn’t tell me your other running partner was freaking Captain America,” he snaps once the people have dispersed, interest lost now that the symbol of American patriotism and freedom has vanished. “You let me wax on about the shape of his ass and my sex dream the other day and didn’t think that was worth mentioning?”

Sam snorts at the reminder as if he can’t believe that’s a conversation they shared together. 

“It’s not like you would have believed me,” he counters, and yeah, alright he’s got a point. 

But who would believe the guy he’s teaching Russian to hangs out with a super serum enhanced Avenger in his spare time? But, no, hold on-

“Wait. _Are_ you the Falcon?” 

Sam glances around the path but relaxes once he’s satisfied nobody is within earshot.

“Yes, okay. I’m the Falcon but it’s on the down low right now so keep your mouth shut. Now are we going to this bar or what, man?”

Great. So he’s friends with _two_ Avengers now. This is not the kind of attention he wished for when letting people into his quiet life. It’s too late to undo anything now though. He’d probably miss them if he asked them to leave him alone. 

“Alright, chicken wing but you’re gonna buy first round and then you better tell me all about your flapping adventures.”

“Wow, two bird jokes. You schooled me real good there, Reiser.”

“Мудак.”

“Hey, no fair. You said you aren’t allowed to teach us Russian swear words.”

“Not at Fluent City but buy a fella a drink and maybe I will.”

Sam grin is positively obscene. “I’ll hold you to that.”

The Russian curses come out when they’re thoroughly soused, though it’s Sam who’s mostly drunk, he's not feeling any effects even after they’ve drained two pitchers of beer. By then he’s almost forgotten about the run in with the infamous Captain America in Central Park.

Almost.

 

  
  


He still brings up the encounter after the end of his class on Wednesday once all of the students have filed out of the room. 

Sam lingers in the back when it’s clear that he wants to talk.

“About the other night, about Captain-“

But Sam’s already waving an easy hand, motorcycle jacket slung over a shoulder. 

“Nah, man,” he interrupts. “It’s all good. Just forget about it.”

The reply is perplexing in a lot of ways that he can’t quite grasp but the topic won’t be thrown into the back of his mind to obsess over later. 

No.

Not this time. This matters and he’s not letting go so easily. 

A gravelly noise erupts in the back of his throat as he snorts. “Who the hell would wanna forget Captain America?” 

Sam rolls back on his feet, jacket sliding off its perch on his shoulder in an expression of utmost disbelief, dropping so low that the sleeves brush the floor while he clutches the scruff of the materials against his hip. 

It’s more than surprise. His eyes are wide as if a major planetary shift took place in the last few seconds.

“I’m missing something here, aren’t I?” he guesses, guardedly adjusting the backpack by its straps.

Sam’s eyes are hooded with something that looks a lot like undue rage.

“Shit. No, this is-” he starts, then fumbles to respond. “I just remembered I gotta be somewhere, sorry man.”

It still isn’t quite right. Sam’s too shaken up to keep his voice level and his fists are clenched like he’s about to go off and slug someone.

“Alright, fly high, bird man and I’ll see you Saturday.”

“I hate you,” Sam promises, but they know this dance already and that he doesn’t really mean it.

Sam jogs out of the classroom door with a hurried gesture of farewell. 

He’s full of shit.

It’s no small wonder they’re friends.

 

  
  


 

“He didn’t know did he?” Sam accuses, after he’s stormed into Steve’s apartment in Brooklyn, infused with the strength of injustice. 

Steve only really moved in when Tony kicked Bucky out of the Tower. They'd shared a floor with the Avengers for a several months before that. Then everything fell apart and Bucky was planted in Jackson Heights; close enough to be familiar but not enough to undo the effects of the wipe. 

Sam knows that Steve refused to be informed of the whereabouts of Bucky’s location, as if he didn’t trust his own self-control in maintaining distance. At the time, Sam hadn’t questioned the decision, a pragmatic solution to respecting Bucky’s desire to set out on his own. Steve’s avoidance hadn’t raised any red flags at the time but now all of the pieces are slowly coming together. 

Sam thinks he might be beginning to understand, finally seeing past the soldier and the uniform to the man that Bucky Barnes followed to his death in 1945.

His first death hadn’t taken. In the weeks before they wiped his memories, sometimes Sam had wondered if that might have been kinder. Bucky’s had enough suffering to last more than one lifetime.

Steve is sitting down on the couch and in the middle of preparing for a run since he’s hunched over to tie his shoelaces. From Sam’s perspective he just looks hunched over and miserable.

Like he’s been since Bucky left. 

He didn’t think things could be worse for guy waking up in a new century where everything he’s ever known is different and the people he’s loved are long gone. Most of them. Steve’s has a habit of proving people wrong though. 

Because he’s sad. 

He’d never admit it but the hurt is there in his prolonged silences, the absence of any kind of social life outside of the Avengers and missions like he’s in mourning for his best friend all over again. The best friend that Sam is more and more certain Steve’s been in love with since before he ever picked up that damn shield and tugged on a uniform.

“Did he?” he presses, harder when Steve doesn’t immediately reply and the anger on Bucky’s behalf is a surprise to everyone in the room.

Steve finally sits up but his skin seems worn out and his eyes are weary. There’s a beaten down kind of exhaustion weighing down his shoulders from taking too many hits to an area that his super serum couldn’t protect. 

His heart. But Sam’s too riled up to feel sorry for him right now.

“No. He didn’t know. Otherwise he would never have gone through with the procedure.”

“You sonofabitch,” he snaps, fury bubbling through him at the realisation that Steve is a fucking idiot.

“There was a chance he’d forget,” Steve explains softly, and the 'me' is implicit. “It was a risk I was willing to take.”

“But not Barnes if he’d known about it, right?”

Steve can’t meet his eyes and Sam is vindictively glad for a second that it’s tearing him up inside. At first, he’d only gotten in close to check that Bucky was happy. He’d planned to report back to Steve in the hopes it might offer some sort of closure knowing Bucky was doing all right. Even if it was without him.

It was safer for Sam to approach since Steve would never get anywhere near Bucky when the chance of it triggering his memories still remained. He would never risk all of the work SHIELD had put into helping Bucky forget.

Sam had only met the Winter Soldier a couple times and he’d been more or less unmemorable to the guy. Fortunately. That meant that inserting himself into Bucky’s life wouldn’t be a threat to uncovering the carefully concealed memories. 

He hadn’t actually predicted he would become Bucky’s friend though. That had been unexpected.

“How did you-?“

“You know what he told me today?” he mutters cutting Steve off before he can ask and not pulling any of his punches. 

Steve needs to understand the consequences of this. Not for himself, he’d known what he was doing when he’d made this call, but what it meant to Bucky. 

“He tried to mention meeting you the other day and I told him to forget about it.”

Steve physically recoils as if he’s been struck but Sam’s not finished yet. He needs Steve to understand this. All of this.

He’s starting to appreciate it now, what this thing between Steve and Bucky means. At first he’d assumed it was history, the years and years of friendship and memories shared in a time where happiness came at the cost of life. Wartime is a harsh mother to be nurtured by.

But he knows better now, this isn’t about friendship. This is much more than that. No wonder Steve is always turning down the dates Nat insistently tries to set him up with. And Bucky’s hasn’t committed to a relationship since being reinserted into the fabricated life of Jay Reiser that SHIELD built for him.

“Do you know what he said?” he continues, agitated enough that his fists are fastidiously clenched together. 

He’s probably going to need to run after this too, to blow off some steam. He’s never been this kind of angry with Steve before and it’s unsettled him more than he’s willing to admit. But a lot of things have changed for Sam since he acquired a new running partner.

“He said ‘who the hell would wanna forget Captain America?’”

Steve flinches again, harder, like something’s finally done some lasting damage to that super serum body of his. But by then, Sam’s already trudging out of the room.

“Don’t talk to me for a while, or I’ll probably end up punching you in the face.”

“Okay,” Steve agrees pathetically, but he knows Steve’s only agreeing in order to protect Sam’s hand and not for his own benefit. 

Jesus, they sure picked the perfect martyr to cover in star spangled stripes.

Sam is heading out of the building before he can change his mind and turn around to chew Steve out some more. He’s always known of Steve’s tendency to be self-sacrificing but this is crossing some real boundaries. 

The eclectic hum of the city settles his temper as he pulls out the burner phone that he uses only to contact Bucky. Stark’s encrypted it so nobody can hack it, especially since everybody’s hunting for the Winter Soldier these days. 

He’s still not sure why Stark decided to help him out with this since he’s the one who kicked Bucky out of the Tower in the first place, but he’s not going to turn down help when it comes his way. Riley would never have done it. He always said you have to appreciate the help the universe thinks to give you and not to turn your back on it. 

It's a bit of advice Sam has carried with him ever since Riley died. And he'll never forget it. 

There’s a lot of history that Sam is constantly trying to catch up on with the rest of the Avengers but somehow, even now, he still feels like the new kid on the block.

Being a superhero is hard work.

 **Run in Central Park?** He texts, taking a deep breath. 

Bucky’s reply is almost immediate. He mustn’t be teaching a class at the moment. 

**If you can keep up, penguin man.**

**Fuck you** , he replies, shaking his head at the never-ending bird jokes he’ll have to suffer through for this.

But when Bucky replies with a cheeky looking emoji, the Winter fucking Soldier sent him an _emoji_ , Sam figures maybe it’s worth it.

He heads back to his apartment to get dressed into shorts and sneakers and prepares to lose a lung in the process. Bucky’s running is almost more extreme and just as strenuous as Steve’s.

Fucking supersoldiers.

 

  
  


 

He knows what will happen if he pushes too much. There’s something waiting behind the door and there will be no turning back once it’s finally forced open. Can’t unring a bell, after all.

It’s been simpler to avoid it. Less complications that way and for the past few months the routine has been an unexpected wonder like uncovering a hidden prize in a cardboard box of cereal. 

It’s worked for him, probably a lot better than any one could have predicted following the accident and even though he knows everything in his mind and memory isn’t quite there, he’s never wanted for anything else.

Until now.

The run in with Captain America in Central Park changed something within him, though the feeling is so unknowable and insubstantial it has all but dispersed into the ether. Whatever it might have been, it’s upset the delicate balance. 

His mind is no longer in sync with his body but the fabric of his entire being has reached a unanimous understanding.

This is no longer enough.

He wants more. 

 

  
  


It’s too early for regular people to be awake but he finds that it's the perfect time to set up the mat in Central Park and get some morning yoga done. There’s a Fluent City class at ten, but he’s planning to squeeze a coffee and shower in between then.

A small group of people claims the grass to his left in the middle of t’ai chi ch’uan and distance seems safest and arguably the best way not to draw attention so he sets up behind a large American Elm tree. Instantly the environment becomes calming rather than threatening but only after he concentrates for several minutes to block out all of the background noise.

The stances are vigorous but not too taxing and they relax his limbs until they're loose and warm, ready to start another day full of teaching and training. Rinse and repeat. 

This quiet life still works for him, somehow. Even if he covets new things. Recovery from his accident might be slow but it definitely feels as if it’s going in the right direction.

Forward.

He spots the blonde hair before anything else. The great hulking body of muscle lithely darts past next with a strength and agility that’s staggering. 

Captain America, Steve Rogers. Only he’s learnt his lesson now and is running through Central Park before the light of dawn touches the grass. Of course they would share the same idea without intending to.

“Hey,” he calls out when Captain America, Steve Rogers is passing the tree without a glance. “Captain- uh Steve Rogers!”

Captain America doesn’t turn his head, doesn’t even pause and that uncurls something deep and primal in him, a foolish urge to be noticed. He takes off after the superhero without a thought of how stupid it is running after Captain America or how embarrassing it will be if he’s not recognised from their meeting several days ago. 

Or how much worse it will be if Captain America doesn’t remember him at all.

He won’t deny that he’s fast on his feet. Faster than most when he’s running a light jog but Captain America is fast too. 

Enough that he needs to work for it. By the time he catches up, the American Elm where he abandoned his belongings is nearly out of sight and he’s close enough to hear the blast of music from headphones.

“Hey, punk!” he yells, a little annoyed that he followed for so long or that he couldn’t resist the urge to in the first place. 

Trailing after Captain America like some kind of hopeless fool. This is already way out of control.

The words are loud enough to break through the music because the guy trips. Captain fucking America jolts and somehow stumbles on his own feet. His hand stretches out automatically, using his strong arm to seize the crook of Steve Rogers’ elbow, prepared to take most of his weight if he’s going down.

But Captain America doesn’t. He twists, graceful and surefooted again as he regains his balance, moving closer so that they won’t fall together, tearing an ear bud out in one seamless movement.

“Oh God, sorry. I thought I’d try one of these out for the first time but I think I had the volume too loud and I-“

He’s gesturing distractedly at the iPod clipped to his shirt and hasn’t looked up yet but when he does some of the careful ease slips out of his eyes and tension takes its place.

“Oh,” he says, somewhat unhelpfully, recognition heavy between them before his jaw clenches.

It hurts, being looked at like that, but he can’t fathom why. The expressions of strangers don’t usually bother him. He pushes the feeling away and focuses on being ignorant of it.

“You still haven’t used an iPod yet? What have your 21st century friends been teaching you?” he demands before cautiously stepping closer to unclip it. 

His fingers brush against warm skin and it sends every thought scattering to the farthest corners of the universe. Steve Rogers’ chest is warm and what he wants more than anything is the chance to bury his face there and breathe.

His left hand automatically fits into the groove between Captain America’s shoulder and neck before the impulse of touching Steve Rogers is conspicuous enough to resist, lightly squeezing as he leans close to demonstrate how to turn the volume down. Captain America doesn’t pull away, doesn’t question the unforseen touch but his body slopes loosely into his hand as if unwound, tacitly inviting it. 

This unbidden urge for intimacy is unusual for him, since it’s not directly followed by the desire to push the boundaries toward anything sexual. There’s no denying that he wants to put his mouth to the expanse of Steve Rogers’ skin and taste it but there’s something equally satisfying in this, too. 

Just an exchange of touch. It’s both anchoring and thrilling, uplifting the stretch of his ribs and expanding them with every rapturous beat of his heart. In that peculiar instant where Steve Rogers refuses to break the contact between their bodies, he is euphoric.

He’s been trained to act without the debilitating rush of adrenaline because of its disadvantages in hand-to-hand combat. It slows the body down, the mind working too fast so that the accuracy of movement and strikes suffers because of it.

But his body floods with adrenaline now.

With a heartbeat that is no longer steady, he ducks his head, recognising the heady flush to his cheeks for what it is. Captain America is watching the entire process with a mystified curve of his eyebrows but listens attentively to the explanation. 

The part of him that unconsciously wants to embrace Captain America doesn’t relent. The longing is too strong to be comforted by the rationality of his thoughts.

“I can’t believe even you figured out how to use one of these before me,” Steve Rogers mutters as if to himself.

If it’s an attempt at humour it’s not funny. He stiffens up and actively resists the urge to back away. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Captain America flinches, trapped in the admission of words. So he hadn’t meant to say them aloud.

“How do you know me?” he tries again, hoping Captain America might be feeling more forthcoming this time around.

“Look, it’s safer if- you just forget about it.”

But that could mean anything and it’s still not enough. This is not so insignificant that he can abandon it unfeelingly. He can’t do it.

“What if I don’t want to?” he demands, and the anger is there, more present in the company of this schmuck. 

Everything seems more present around him. Fixed.

He hadn’t realised words could be weapons like this, not until Captain America’s skin whitens and the next breath sounds painful as if he’s inhaled broken glass.

“Please,” Captain America whispers, and yes, words are weapons, because this one digs into the vulnerable spaces beneath his skin, targeting the hidden weakness there.

So Captain America’s words can hurt him too.

“Have coffee with me,” he says. “Steve Rogers.”

These words aren’t meant to hurt now but Captain America’s mouth thins and the fire in his eyes shrivels into helpless anguish. A stricken look seizes his face.

“I can’t.”

“You should. Sam told me about what happened, ending your lifelong partnership. But getting out, meeting new people. That’s how you move on.”

Steve Rogers looks torn, haunted by some unknown memory. The face of his lost lover perhaps.

“This isn’t going to help,” Steve Rogers manages, bemused and rueful. 

Resigned to the outcome before he’s even taken the risk.

“How do you know?” he wonders, knowing he’s pushing too hard but can’t stop.

He wants this, he realises. Wants this more than he’s wanted anything. 

Steve Rogers sitting in a booth across from him. Steve Rogers drinking coffee. Steve Rogers talking for a long period of time about anything and everything. Steve Rogers using his hands when he does so.

Steve Rogers. Steve Rogers. 

“I don’t,” he admits, smiling as if he can’t help it either. “What- uh what was your name again?”

How can a man know him so intimately somehow, but not know his name? This is dangerous. The door might be unopened before him, but it feels like Steve Rogers is handing over the key. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t care. 

“Jay Reiser,” he says, extending his hand and the name has never felt more like a lie than the moment it slides into Steve Rogers’ outstretched fingers. 

The warmth of him is familiar and foreign. An unexpected pleasure.

“So that’s a yes?” he asks, when neither of them let go. 

They’re not shaking hands so much as mostly clutching at fingers, prolonging the sensation of contact. He won’t withdraw first. Not until he has to. There’s something illicit about this and he wants to fall into it, wants to follow it as far as it will go. He can’t turn away. Wouldn’t even know how.

“It’s always a yes,” Steve Rogers says, and he’s smiling now, and it hurts, it hurts being exposed to that kind of careless warmth and he wishes he could bury his teeth in it.

The first true smile that he’s witnessed finally revivifying Captain America’s face.

He laughs at the thoughtlessly trusting reply as if he is somehow worth a second glance from this man but Steve Rogers is in awe of the sound, staring at his face with unabashed rapture. 

It’s oddly endearing, but his laughter should not be such a fascinating source of interest. In the rare moments that he does laugh, it’s always a little too loud and too boisterous for polite company. 

He asks for Steve Rogers’ cell phone and reluctantly releases him when he pulls back to remove it from his pocket. 

Steve Rogers hands it over, unquestioning. And much too trusting.

He punches in his contact details, fingers slipping and uncoordinated from the intensity of Steve Roger’s attention. He uses only the fingers on his right hand because his left never seems to generate enough heat to register on the touchpad. Probably just bad circulation.

Once he’s finished, he slips the device back into Steve Rogers’ outstretched hand, lingering needlessly as they organise a meeting place for this future caffeine intake. Steve Rogers dithers with the decision as if he can taste the jeopardy of this as well but still doesn’t say no.

They part ways. Reluctantly. Lingering in this small moment together without any authentic reason to.

Eventually they move, but he can’t draw his eyes away from Steve Rogers now that he’s in his sights. Not when he’s agreed to this.

When they’ve both agreed. The freshness of the morning suddenly tastes of inevitability.

A fixed point.

Steve Rogers. Steve Rogers.

 

  
  


 

“Wanna squeeze in a morning run before your classes on Thursday?” Sam wonders, sprawled out across the single ratty couch that claims his living room. 

For a superhero he leads a pretty sedentary life. 

“We could grab lunch after. That Oxtail Soup from Pam Real Thai always hits the spot.”

He turns back to look at him, arm still holding the refrigerator door open and letting the cold air out, two beers clutched in hand as he considers the question. 

Heat crawls across his skin when he remembers.

“I can’t. I’m meeting Steve Rogers for coffee.”

Sam sits up so rapidly his body almost spills across the couch cushions. “What? Cap? Steve Rogers as in- Captain America- he asked you for-“

“No,” he says, bristling at the frown on Sam’s face. There’s disapproval lingering in the set of his mouth. “I ran into him again. So _I_ asked.”

Sam straightens until he’s only taking up a normal amount of space on the couch. He very insistently does not make eye contact. 

“Are you sure that you want to do that? You know what I said about- he’s carrying around a lot of emotional baggage from his past relationship. It’s too soon for-“

“It’s not like that,” he maintains, but Sam’s not at all convinced. “It’s just coffee. It’s not a date.”

Sam’s eyes widen a little as if the thought hadn’t actually occurred to him.

“Do you want it to be a date?”

He waits an appropriate amount of time to answer, not too fast and without the heavy pause that signifies a carefully constructed lie. Not too much eye contact and not too little as if to give the impression of avoiding it.

“No.”

Sam does not believe him.

“-okay,” he says, extending the word so that it draws out further suspicion. “Look, I’m not trying to stop you or anything I just… I hope it works out, that’s all.”

There’s an errant sensation that rises up in the forefront of his mind occasionally that Sam might be aware of much more than he’s divulging, but it never lasts long. That kind of distrustful revelation is simpler to dismiss. Thinking like that only provokes guilt.

Sam is his friend, one of an endangered breed and he only wants to help. If Raenia is allowed her secrets, then Sam should be given the same courtesy.

“Thanks.”

The fridge door snaps shut and he trudges over toward the couch, socks sliding across the wooden floor as he tugs distractedly at the waistband of his sweatpants, riding low on his hips. 

Sam accepts the beer first before sliding over to make room before they resume watching Pirates of the Caribbean. 

He doesn’t remember watching these movies before either. 

Cursed skeleton pirates isn’t a storyline people generally forget.

It’s safer not to dwell on it for too long.

 

  
  


 

His cell phone rings at midnight. Sam’s already stumbled home, though not without the comfort of his shabby couch offered first and he’s hasn’t been in bed long enough to warm the sheets up yet.

It’s Raenia.

“Nightmare?” he wonders, because they do that sometimes. Call at any hour of the night just to talk, or not talk depending on the mood.

They vaguely discuss it, but never go into further detail besides sensations and emotions. Even if they might half-trust each other, the honesty of the subconscious in sleep is too big a bridge to cross.

For both of them.

“You’re having coffee with Captain America tomorrow,” she exclaims, at a decibel that hurts sensitive ears. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

Oh shit. Why didn’t he think of Raenia’s reaction in the midst of all of this?

“How-“

“Nat mentioned it. I can’t believe that I generously brought you into the Steve Rogers’ fanclub and you end up on a fucking date with the guy.”

“It’s not a date.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Jay,” Raenia retorts. “We have discussed dreams together alright. Dreams that happen to include a naked Captain America ravishing you so don’t even try to play that game.”

“I’m not denying I’d be interested,” he argues reasonably because they have discussed those dreams at great length. “Just that it’s not going to happen. He’s just got out of a relationship. He’s sad alright? I just want to-“

But he can’t even explain what it is that he wants to do. The tender workings of his own heart seem foreign most days and this is no different.

“I don’t know. It’s just coffee.”

Raenia snorts. “Yeah, yeah, _just_ coffee. You’d better invite me along next time. I want to meet him.”

“What if the real Steve Rogers isn’t what you hoped?”

Raenia snorts, distinctly unconcerned by the prospect. “I doubt I can be disappointed by men anymore than I already have been.”

“Fair point. Hey, what are you doing Friday night? Wanna hang out after I finish up at the Institute?”

He can hear the rustling of her sheets as she climbs out of bed and putters into another room. A kitchen from the subsequent sounds of running water filling an empty cup. 

“I finish my shift at seven, but you can bet your ass I’m coming over so we can talk about your coffee date. Visible proof might also be necessary for the sake of truth and accurateness.”

“I am not going to take some covert photo of Captain America’s ass, you can forget it,” he declares firmly. “Besides I’d probably get caught.”

A sharp, gravelly sound erupts over the speaker, abnormal and at once startling before he realises that Raenia is actually laughing. He’s not certain that he’s ever heard it before.

“You don’t give yourself enough credit. You haven’t seen what you can do.”

An unwelcome shiver trails across his spine. 

“So, Friday?” he checks, redirecting the conversation.

“After my shift, uh-huh.” Raenia hasn’t told him where she works or what her profession is and he’s never asked.

The best option is to leave things as they are, until she decides to supply information. Otherwise he’ll only distress her like certain invasive modes of questioning always upset him. 

They’re cut from the same cloth in a lot of ways.

“Good. We’ll talk then.”

“About your date.”

“Just coffee.”

“Sure it is,” she says, and he can almost hear the smile.

 

  
  


 

He’s nervous for this meeting. Not like it had been with Natasha who always inspires prudence and foreboding. These feelings are incomparable. 

Steve Rogers is a very real, very different kind of threat.

And he has no idea what should be done about it. The clothes in his wardrobe suddenly don’t fit right and he feels as if more effort needs to be channelled into the tangled knot of his hair. Should it look that messy? Or should he shower again?

He settles on a long-sleeved shirt and jeans that are easy to manoeuvre in- mostly if he needs to run. There’s a high chance of that happening if he embarrasses himself in a way that the situation cannot be salvaged and escape is the only option. 

It doesn’t hurt to be prepared.

For anything.

He meets Steve Rogers at a fairly non-descript café that he frequents some days when the crowds at Starbucks get to be too much. It’s a strange amalgamation of a diner, café and deli all in one and they sell a real hearty lasagne that he’s inhaled on more than one occasion.

By the time he arrives, Steve Rogers is already there waiting. The other good thing about this place is that nobody is going to bother him here for an autograph or unnecessary hero questions.

Unconsciously, he wanted to retain Steve Rogers’ attention for as long as possible without interruptions. The instinct is a little disturbing and he needs to assure himself several times that he’s not planning on making Steve Rogers uncomfortable. 

Nothing strange at all. Just coffee.

“Hey,” he greets softly as Steve Rogers glances up from the newspaper he’s idly sifting through, forehead creased with a frown. 

There are two coffees already waiting on the table, steam ascending generously beyond them.

It’s colder than usual inside. Their heaters must be out again.

“Looking for Buck Rogers?” he teases, sliding into the booth across from him.

Steve Rogers’ hands stop moving and his eyes soften with amazement. “What?”

His insides lurch at the hopeful expression there. “The comic strip? Nothing. Never mind.”

They settle quietly into each other’s space and he wordlessly marvels at the ease of it. It feels right being here even if he can’t understand why. In order to do something with his hands, he inches forward to grab the mug in the same instance that Steve Rogers moves obligingly to push it closer.

Their fingers touch and he stills at the contact, at the unseen thrill of it while his breath catches in the back of his throat. His eyes drink in the exact second that Steve Rogers swallows heavily and reluctantly draws away.

“So how are you? How you liking the twenty-first century?”

Steve Rogers is eyeing him closely, with a consideration that should be unnerving but pleasure uncurls beneath his ribs instead at the sensation of being watched like this. Of deserving this kind of regard. 

The smile Steve Rogers offers is both pained and amused.

“It has its perks.”

The moment unwinds satisfyingly around them like a cat curling up languidly in the sun. The urge to sink into this booth, to curl up against Steve Rogers is persistent.

“Tell me something,” he says, cradling the rim of the mug, hands cupped around the condensed warmth. “Anything. Tell me something about you.”

“Uh well-“

“And don’t talk about Captain America,” he warns, holding Steve Rogers’ gaze as his lips part around the rim of the cup to take a sip.

Steve Rogers is fascinated by the demand as well as confused. “But I am Captain America.”

He sets the cup back down onto the table, expression light and innocent. “That’s funny. I thought your name was Steve Rogers.”

Finally, he seems to understand the request and a compelling flush of pink whispers across Steve Rogers’ jaw before pooling in his cheeks.

“I- I haven’t sketched a thing in about seventy years. Not since- I got out of the ice. I keep putting pencil to paper and- nothing.”

“Why not?”

Steve Rogers sits back and mulls it over. “I don’t know. I guess nothing much has inspired me lately.”

“And there’s nothing at all interesting about the twenty-first century,” he counters, raising an eyebrow.

“Maybe it’s been too long and all that talent’s dried up,” Steve Rogers jokes without much humour.

He reaches out with his right hand, fingers trailing Steve Rogers’ wrist because he can’t resist the touch. The curled fingers open up like a flower and he traces the open lines of a welcoming palm tenderly.

“Please. These artist hands weren’t made only to punch through walls.”

Steve Roger’s fingers twitch once he reaches the edge of his fingertips and withdraws. The touch still tingles on his skin as if it’s a remnant of something else. Something more.

“Maybe,” Steve Rogers says, expression thoughtful and distant, lost in the past again.

“Jesus, you’re sad,” he says eventually. “When was the last time you did something that wasn’t selfless and self-sacrificing?”

Steve Rogers laughs before his expression tightens into melted wax, eyes darkening with internal bitterness. Directed inward.

“Right now,” he admits and their inner thighs brush when his boots slide into the open space between their feet.

A desperate, ravenous hope rattles in his chest. “You need to get out more.”

Steve Rogers’ grin is roguish. The little shit.

“Besides I’m the one who roped you into this. You’re doing me a favour.”

The mood shifts rapidly, Steve Rogers’ unfailing ire bursting forth. “This isn’t charity,” he vows, jaw squared stubbornly. “I wanted to be here.”

Heat flares up between them just as quickly when neither of them look away. There’s something foolishly addictive about it.

He could happily sit here all day, talking with Steve Rogers.

And they do.

They stay for hours, talking about anything, talking about things he hasn’t even thought to speak about before. 

Steve Rogers orders sandwiches and the lasagne from the deli and buys a huge portion without any prompting. They talk in between bites of food and time is so immaterial that they don’t even notice its passing.

Slowly, but carefully they gravitate together, until they’re no long sitting opposite but side-by-side, thigh slotted up against thigh, breathing each other in.

He wants to put his hands everywhere. On Steve Rogers’ thigh, on the barest hint of naked skin showing above his hip, across the wide breadth of his shoulders, around the stretch of his narrow waist, against the delicate features of his face, trail his fingertips through his hair and brush the length of his eyelashes.

But he resists.

Only that doesn’t curb the wanting. He craves to discover Steve Rogers with his mouth, to taste the different reactions and savour the noises he makes when he does.

His body knows this dance somehow, how to navigate the hunger and it’s a boon that he doesn’t get hard in his jeans when Steve Rogers does not permit distance to form between them by drawing away.

The warning alarm goes off on his phone. The one he always sets to allow enough time to get to work. It’s never gone off before because he’s never been late enough to warrant it. 

He’s always eager to go and teach. 

Not now.

It’s two o’clock and if he doesn’t leave right away, he’ll be pushing it.

“I should go,” he admits, hating to finish this when it hasn’t even started.

“Okay,” Steve Rogers agrees, but his eyes are unhappy.

They stare at one another for a fraction too long, no leeway between them. Steve Rogers gazes at his face as if he aches to commit it to memory.

The constraint becomes too much. The exigency of yearning swells in his blood and he surges forward to kiss him.

Steve Rogers’ freshly touched mouth opens at once, lips fervidly soft and yielding. An anguished cry echoes weakly in his ears, in the space of their lips and he realises unexpectedly that this is not familiar.

Somehow, he’d had the absurd anticipation that he’d done this before. Steve Rogers is both voracious and inhibited and when his fingers hit metal he finally detects why.

Frowning he pulls back, one hand deeply tangled in Steve Rogers’ hair and the other caught in the tags hanging around his neck. Haltingly, he turns them over in his palm and reads the name there.

James Buchanan Barnes.

This was a mistake.

Casually, he withdraws both of his hands, swallowing around the desire fogging his mind. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have done that. You’re still sweet on your guy. That was a mistake.”

“Jay,” he breathes and his lips are swollen and red and he’d kill to be James Buchanan Barnes even for an instant just so he could kiss him again.

“Forget about it. Please.” 

And he’s detaching from the intimacy of this private space, aiming for the door.

His last frantic glance back at Steve Rogers betrays how aggrieved he is by the whole ordeal.

Fuck. What has he done?

 

  
  


 

His classes go past in a blur and he can’t recall anything that went on in them afterward.

Except for the message Sam sends.

**How did coffee go?**

Panic licks through his bones as he remembers what he did. The incriminatory mistake he made.

 **Fine, Sambird.**

It’s simpler to act as if things are normal, than to alert Sam to something different. After all, he and Steve Rogers are friends.

**Enough with the bird jokes already.**

Playful banter. It’s a simple concept. He can handle this.

**Sorry. Didn’t mean to ruffle your feathers.**

Sam’s reply is long-winded expletive that might makes him cringe at the crassness of it if any of that actually bothered him.

He’s not going to stop though. Bird jokes are too easy. 

 

  
  


 

He calls in sick for both of his classes tomorrow and the rattle in his throat means it barely takes any convincing. 

Then he walks until the entrance of a subway station crosses his path. He disappears down the staircase, swipes the metrocard to get through the turnstile and walks onto a platform as a train slides into view.

He gets onto the train.

And then he sits. His eyes tracks the movement through the opaque windows but his mind makes no attempt to snatch at the images, lost completely in the blank void where thoughts should be.

James Buchanan Barnes.

He’s been so, so stupid.

The train rattles across the track and there are thirty-two people in the carriage. Only eight are standing, nineteen are wearing either headphones or earphones, twelve are reading various colourful and eye-catching novels and two are slumped inward, asleep.

He is not aware of any of them. Except that when a pregnant woman enters at the next stop, he stands up and soundlessly offers the seat.

He’s already across the carriage when the woman gratefully sits down.

Every motion is automatic, reflex and muscle memory piloting a ship with no hailing captain.

Stations fly by. The crowd thins out.

He sits down again.

The void pulls everything deeper.

“Sir?”

The words are addressed to him. 

He jerks his head up from position it’s been in, bowed low and staring at the space between his shoes. Where Steve Rogers’ feet had rested only a short time ago.

The train is empty and the doors are wide open, awaiting action. A man in a uniform with the words MTA printed on his breast pocket lingers in the open space.

There is no question in his eyes but an answer is tucked in the insistent corner of his mouth.

“The train is terminating. This is the end of the line.”

Recognition spikes through his chest, electrifying every movement as he rushes to stand and jerks forward unevenly. The Conductor’s expression wrinkles with confusion.

“Sir, are you alright?”

“What did you just say?” he asks, heart rabbiting in his ribcage like it wants to jump out.

“This is the last stop-“

His hands tense into fists. “No. Repeat exactly what you just said.”

“Please,” he adds when the Conductor hesitates.

“I said: ‘The train is terminating. This is the end of the line’. Sir, are you sure-?“

“Thank you,” he says and skirts past, legs finding a rhythm again. 

The staircase leads out into the evening. A glance announces his position: Coney Island Terminal.

He walks the streets, brimming with life and noise until his feet hit the boardwalk and the rush of water lapping the shore and then keeps walking.

The senseless path his boots cuts across the wood finally hesitate at the sight of the Wonder Wheel. He ignores the seat to his left since it faces the swell of the east bank and climbs atop the metal rungs of the guardrail to sit on it.

Coney Island is lit up at night. Awash with colour and he stares at the Wonder Wheel and the stretch of rollercoaster in the background.

This is the end of the line.

A voice rises up unsolicited. _Remember when I made you ride the Cyclone on Coney Island?_

It’s his own voice, jaded and sardonic and the reply is almost instantaneous. Another heart reaching out through the abyss. Always reaching out.

_Yeah, and I threw up?_

The fingers of his right hand feel colder than his left.

_This isn’t payback is it?_

Is it?

James Buchanan Barnes.

This is the end of the line. No. No, not that. Not quite that. Until. Until.

_Until._

James Buchanan Barnes.

Until the end of the line.

The Cyclone slips past in the distance, screams of laughter filling up his ears as the Wonder Wheel spins slowly on.

No, he thinks, mind shockingly silent. 

Not James.

 _Bucky_.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Here's hoping I got these right):
> 
> たいへん　よくできました。-You did a great job!  
> どうもありがとう-Thanks a lot.  
> была не была- Let come what may (Whatever happen, happens)  
> только хорошие вещи- Only good things  
> Мудак -Asshole


	2. Chapter 2

  
  
  


He laughs. And laughs and laughs as his fingers shake, tugging the cell phone out of the pocket of his jeans.

She picks up instantly.

“It’s me,” he says and laughs again. “It’s me, Raenia. It’s me. I’m him. It'smeit'smeit'smeit'smeit'sme.”

“Jay?” she says, full of dire concern, and her voice sounds fugacious and far away. “Where are you?”

“I’m him,” he repeats and laughs, cruel and savagely sharp like the slice of a bellicose knife. “It’s me. It’s _me_.”

“Where are you?” she presses, harder now as if to staunch the torrent of emotion bleeding out of his chest. 

But it's too late for that. 

The wound has already been torn wide open.

“Coney Island.”

“Don’t go anywhere.”

Words refuse to form in his mouth, as strangled and absent as every other cell in his body. Raenia doesn’t hang up but the faint noises of her moving around her apartment- keys jangling as she locks the door- are soothing. Laughter from the Cyclone filters through as background noise again, provoking another wave of memory, wistful and harrowing and he laughs along with it.

What a cosmic joke this world is. Just an endless spin of the Wonder Wheel. 

Full circle.

Raenia must sense he’s in no state to talk so she speaks instead about nothing in particular. The mellow cascade of words is more soporific than the content itself, settling the distress rattling in his bones. She mentions Steve only once but the noise that spews from his mouth is so painful and raving that she forcefully changes the subject until he can breathe again.

Time passes between the rush of the train screeching in the background. The blanket of voices surrounding her, faceless strangers and their conversation interweave with Raenia's voice as she talks. Traffic sings along with the click of her shoes on the sidewalk. And the Wonder Wheel keeps turning.

She hangs up once she observes the ragged figure he makes on the boardwalk, the defeated and senseless slump to his shoulders. Raenia jogs towards him but he's frozen in a parody of one singular moment, phone pressed to his ear and staring impassively ahead, unmoving. He registers that she is there but is unable to do anything beyond that brief clarity of knowing. 

Raenia isn’t playing this game and comes to stand in front of him instead. The space between them narrows down to the dangerous threat of almost brushing his bent knees. It's safer for everyone if no one touches him right now.

“It’s me,” he says and the laugh comes out as a disjointed sob.

Raenia’s features hone into something distinctly formidable. “Alright. You’re coming home with me.”

“But I don’t even know where you live,” he says, unnecessarily and laughs again.

Her heavy boots are mostly unlaced, the markedly mismatched socks unevenly covering her shins above them and this information is deeply fascinating.

“Guess you’re about to find out.”

Raenia doesn’t touch him, but she stands apart expectantly until he staggers off of the guardrail.

The walk back to the station is silent save for his occasional burst of incredulous, scattered laughter.

The nausea comes next.

He throws up in a nearby trashcan apropos of a tumultuous stomach and contracting abdominal muscles as Raenia watches from afar, unimpressed. The leftover taste of bile is unpleasant but stalwart, distracting from the overload of memory.

Raenia leads him into the subway and onto the correct platform and a train arrives two minutes later. He follows her and collapses into a seat, chest heaving and drenched in sweat, feeling as if he might upchuck again.

If he hadn’t already.

He should never have opened the door.

 

  
  


 

Raenia lives in a very well protected apartment complex. The names of every resident are written next to a prospective call button and the only space without a surname is for apartment 6A.

And that must be her apartment. Raenia attends his classes for a reason.

Hysterically he realises that he's seeing her apartment for the first time and he doesn't even know what her last name might be. Before he can start laughing again she uses her key to let them into the foyer. Next she tries to lead him toward the elevator but he manages to shakes his head, jerking spasmodically toward the stairs. Raenia follows without comment.

She stops on level six and opens the door out of the stairwell, pushing it wide to allow him through first. He’s been staring at his hands for the last thirty minutes, realising the things that he’s done with them. That they made him do.

Raenia unlocks 6A and leads him inside and he doesn’t even reach the couch, collapsing onto the rug stretched beneath it, great rattling breaths strangling his throat.

“Talk to me, talk to me,” she hisses, darting close and pulling away before they touch.

“I remember now,” he gasps, struggling against his own body. “I remember.”

“What do you remember?”

“It’s me, Raenia,” he explains, soft and urgent. “I’m him.”

“You’ve been saying that for little over an hour now and I need more than that to understand what you’re talking about.”

“I’m the one they’re looking for. The one who murdered innocent people. I’m the Winter-“

“Don’t,” she curbs the words, brutally, as they both remember the conversation weeks and weeks ago.

But she’s frowning with pity in the careful mask of her face, not fear. 

Raenia does not believe him.

The whirring noise rears up again as he rotates his shoulders to release tension in the back of his neck and he turns rigid at the sound of it, understanding the enormity of meaning. Slowly, calmly, he slips out of his hoodie and rolls up the left sleeve of his shirt, exposing the skin of his forearm.

“Do you hear that?” 

Raenia tilts her head at an awkward angle to listen, humouring the question but her forehead crinkles with concentration.

“Yes?” she admits and if he wasn’t certain before he is now. “What is-”

He bursts to his feet, leaping across the kitchen island and drawing a knife from the set perched atop the counter. Raenia has only begun to turn in the seconds it takes him to move, mouth slack with shock at the speed. Her eyes open with alarm when she sees the knife and his raised arm and realises exactly what he’s about to do.

“Jay, no!” she cries, but it’s too late he’s already slamming the knife into the stretch of skin visible on his left forearm.

Raenia scrambles forward in a desperate and futile effort but she fails before the resounding chink of metal meeting metal shatters through silence and the knife breaks apart. He stares down at his arm triumphantly, seeing the proof, visible before them. There’s a smear of silver underneath and he wonders what type of material surrounds it to resemble this false skin. 

“It’s not real,” he explains, breathlessly. “It’s metal. A prosthetic. That’s why those burns didn’t hurt.”

But Raenia moves closer, stance even and quickly disarms the broken knife from his grip, clattering it to the floor.

He flushes with pride and indignation before he realises why she did it.

“I wasn’t going to-“ he promises, but the implication lies heavily between them.

The pronouncement is followed by some degree of surprise. He actually hadn’t intended to hurt himself. Not in the way she was expecting.

“Even if you weren’t you still frightened me anyway,” she mutters and bends down to scoop the pieces of the fractured knife up. “I did that mostly for me.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “You did really well.”

Raenia only shrugs with a eerie calmness that she should not possess right now. “I’ve got a semi decent teacher.”

Her stance is defensive despite her behaviour, truly unrelaxed around him again like the first time they met and he carefully extends extra space between them to put her more at ease. He understands, truly. Jay has transformed into a monster before her eyes. 

“Do you still half-trust me? Or would you like me to leave?”

Raenia clicks her tongue in disgust but doesn’t respond further, stepping around his prone figure towards the overhead cupboard. She brings down two glasses and procures a bottle of whiskey from a different area, gesturing towards the unopened window.

He regards the fire escape outside, unlocks it and climbs out first. The fresh air is at once harsh and startling but only serves to heighten attentiveness. Raenia follows soon after, bringing the glasses and whiskey and they orient themselves into a comfortable position.

The silence is not an accusation as she pours a decent amount into both glasses.

“I can’t get drunk,” he says. “I’ve got a bastardised serum of-“

He can’t even say it. But Raenia does not have that issue.

“Cap-“

“Please,” he begs, wincing, and feeling as if he's crumbling all over again.

She relents and tosses back the whiskey before pushing the other glass towards his hand.

“I think I knew, somehow. Who you were. On a subconscious level.”

He pours the whiskey down his throat anyway, relishing the flood of heat in his gut and how it washes out the taste of sickness. He wishes that maybe he knew subconsciously as well, so at least right now he wouldn't feel so fractured and shattered apart like this. He'd known the life he'd left behind was dubious and potentially unsavoury, he just hadn't anticipated how much, 

“If that’s true you really didn’t learn a thing about risk minimisation from the Institute by becoming my friend.”

The fact that Raenia only rolls her eyes and pours more whiskey should probably be upsetting but he only feels wide, overarching relief. At the fact that he's not alone again this time. That Raenia is still his friend. Loyalty sounds like a foreign concept right now. 

“And we already covered this," she replies, tossing her glass back and swallowing hard. "The whole world is one big risk so might as well go on living in it. Death is inevitable anyway.”

He pours the whiskey again for both of them and doesn’t reply.

“And what’s your connection to- the guy in American stripes.”

He sighs.

“You gotta laptop?”

“Yeah.”

“Probably easier if you grab it.”

Raenia stares at him for a drawn out second, as if determining whether or not he’ll be there when she gets back. Once she seems satisfied he will be, she sits up and climbs back inside again, light steps pattering into the bedroom.

He forgoes the glass and puts his lips around the bottle, tipping it back. The rush of it feels like benediction. He stops before halfway, unwilling to drain the entire thing before Raenia returns. It doesn't look too expensive but he's been wrong about enough things tonight to even begin to think it's worth the risk.

She twists through the opening a moment later and squeezes through, passing the laptop to his outstretched hand.

He nestles it against his lap and opens it up, tilting it toward her when it’s password protected. Raenia unlocks it for him and he brings up Google. He exhales another frustrated breath before typing in James Buchanan Barnes and clicking on the images option of the search.

The photos are grainy, black and white but it’s clearly him, without the length of his hair and a darker shadow of stubble transforming his features.

In most of the surviving photos he’s standing next to Steve and it’s astonishing how clean he looked back then, even when his hands were already dirty.

He passes the laptop to Raenia and looks upward instead, slipping into the open space of barely visible stars that are concealed by air pollution now. The fog of human interest. The stars never used to be so hard to see. This world is just as unforgiving as the last.

Raenia releases a small, hurt noise and he braces for the rest of the reaction.

“You’re James Barnes,” she breathes, shocked. “You’re _Bucky_. You’re St- _his_ Bucky.”

Heat curls in his limbs at the suggestion but the nausea is back as a callous reminder to quell such a response. 

“Not anymore. He did this to me,” he says, gesturing at the clothes he’s wearing like another skin, another identity. Another _lie_. “He wiped my memories.”

Raenia’s mouth tightens. “Do you actually remember that? Or are you assuming that’s what happened?”

He scowls and runs a hand through his wind tussled hair. “That punk would never have let anybody mess with my head again unless it was his decision.”

She isn't completely convinced of that and it hurts much more than it should because he can’t quite force himself to believe it either. And yet here he is, Jay Reiser, living another life. He can't expect the world of Steve, especially now. He doesn't deserve it.

“After he found me I was able to pretend for a while like I could be Bucky again but it didn’t last. I wasn’t doing good, wasn’t coping. I must’ve been too much of a burden for him.”

Raenia does reach out then, to touch the rumpled fabric of his sleeve. “I’m sorry.”

The ensuing quiet is a wounded, miserable thing huddled between them.

‘As long as either lived, he was hateful to the other,’ he quotes, wretchedly when he can't take it anymore.

Raenia blinks. “What?”

“It’s Beowulf’s poet,” he explains bitterly. “Maybe me and him are just like that. Maybe we’re only made to ruin each other.”

His words produce a stricken, distressed expression on her face. This is not a weight he wanted to unleash on anyone. Maybe he shouldn't have called her. She's better off not being dragged into all this.

“But why the hell would he agree to see you if he’d wiped all of your memories? Wouldn’t that defeat the purpose of the whole thing?”

An amused sob wrenches from his mouth and he tugs the bottle towards his lips again. This time he drains it all. He doesn’t even feel tipsy. “Because I kept pushing. I wouldn’t back off. I didn’t remember the connection and I thought it meant something else.”

“What did you think it meant?”

“Любо́вь зла́, полю́бишь и козла́,” he adds, fuming at the viciousness of it all.

“What does that mean?”

“Love is cruel.”

“What-?”

“I kissed him. Fuck.” 

He laughs again. “ _Best friends since childhood, Bucky Barnes and Steven Rogers were inseparable in both schoolyard and the battlefield-_ but that’s the first time I’m stupid enough to stick my tongue in his mouth. I’m a fucking _idiot_.” 

Raenia seems both surprised and unruffled as if he’s merely clarified a point she was already aware of. “Is that what made you remember who you are?”

He pushes the empty bottle into his left hand as if he could will all of his anger into it. “I think I was expecting it to be familiar and when it wasn’t I realised the mistake. The memories came back a couple hours later so maybe the shock of it started the process.”

“I knew it was a lie,” he admits eventually. “But it was a lie that worked, you know? I was sleeping through the night. I was eating enough. I was helping people. The pain of what I’d done wasn’t ripping me apart. I had friends.”

“You _still_ have friends.”

“You maybe. But what about Sam? What about- ? If he didn’t give a flying shit about me then why the fuck would he insert his bird lackey into my life? Or Natasha? _Why_ would he-”

The bottle explodes in his grip, glass shattering from too much pressure being applied and he extends his hand out and away from Raenia so the glass won’t hit her. 

A soft gasp escapes her mouth as if she’s expecting blood anyway, even with the unarguable evidence the knife offered. He lets his fingers fall open and the remaining shards spill through the grating to the asphalt below with a musical sound.

“I’m so fucking stupid. I should’ve let sleeping dogs lie.”

“You wouldn’t want to remember who you are?”

He chuckles, harsh and disparagingly. “I’m a mass murderer. Why would I want to remember the things I’ve done or that the only person I fully trusted wiped me just like Hydra did?”

His stomach rolls at the proclamation and he needs to shove his head between his knees and retch afterward, though not even liquid comes up. Figures.

Raenia grips at his sleeve again, a formidable presence anchoring him in the present. “The things you were _made_ to do,” she corrects gently. “Don’t take back everything you’ve ever said in your own defence now that you know who was under the mask.”

He stops to take a deep breath, marvelling at the words. He _has_ defended himself, when he was Jay and the Winter Soldier was just another victim being hunted down by the government. And he’d meant those words at the time.

Maybe he still does.

“Yeah, you’re- you’re right.”

“You can’t go to work like this tomorrow. You can barely sit up.”

He wipes at his mouth, inhales another breath. “I already called in sick at the Institute and Fluent City. It doesn’t matter. He would’ve told Sam what happened and he’ll come round looking for me soon enough.”

“But you won’t be there.”

“So Sam will know for sure that something’s wrong. He’ll tell- and then he’ll come looking for me.”

“They won’t find you here.”

“Raenia, they’re the Avengers.”

“I don’t care who the fuck they are. They messed with you without your consent and they’re not going to find you here. I’m leased under a false name and the payments are made through a shell company. It’s untraceable. You never told any of them that I live in Tribeca?”

He shakes his head. Why on earth would he have done that? Especially when Raenia is so careful with her privacy.

“Then they won’t find you here.”

Something akin to relaxation stirs through him, comforted by her words. “Thank you.”

“How did it all come back? You just suddenly knew your own name again?”

Rage fuses with the heat in his face. “My fingers got caught in the chain around his neck. The son-of-a-bitch was wearing my fucking dog tags like he’s been carrying a torch this whole time and it’s some grand fucking gesture. James Buchanan Barnes. I only remembered Bucky at Coney Island.” 

“Do you remember being Bucky? Or just that you were him?”

Tears burn hotly in his eyes, spilling onto his cheeks. “Everything is in fragments. Fragments of Bucky before and after the Winter Soldier. Being around Ste- around him made it easier. But I remember everything I’ve done as the Winter Soldier. Everything I was made to do.”

“Do you want to try and find out more about Bucky?”

“It wouldn’t work. The exhibition is closed now and all the items have been shipped back to some history museum. Besides I’ve already been there anyway when I first started remembering.”

“In DC?” she guesses. “When those Hellicarriers went down in the Potomac and they found him on the riverbank.”

His hands clench into fists. Raenia considers the movement thoughtfully. “You left him there didn’t you? You saved him.”

“I’m also the one who put him in the water in the first place. Then the hospital.”

“But you broke through over fifty years of torture, brainwashing and conditioning. You fought through and took your own mind back.”

He knows she’s trying to help in her own way. But there’s no silver lining to be found in this. Not this time. “Only to have it washed away again to make way for Jay Reiser.”

“Then let’s take Bucky back again.”

The idea is a strange one, foreign and compelling. But she has his attention. “How?”

“We’ll visit the National Archives and pull up Veteran and Military documents from the war. Maybe find something more.”

That was more than seventy years ago. They’re not going to find anything. But the earnestness in Raenia’s expression is so encouraging that he can't see the point of saying no. 

It’s something to do at least. Something proactive.

“Do you think you could eat right now?”

He shakes his head and Raenia stands up, climbing through the window and beckoning him back inside. He follows and surprisingly, she takes a hold of his left hand, leading him into a closed room.

Her bedroom.

He pulls his fingers free, nausea settling in again.

“It’s not that,” she says quickly. “Just comfort- if you want?”

He nods, slipping out of his shoes but doesn’t take off his jeans. Raenia doesn’t lose any clothing either before she climbs under the covers.

It’s awkward at first. Two people making attempts at soothing through physical contact who haven’t allowed touch into their lives in a long while. Raenia has to pull away several times, gasping hard and chest heaving and he stiffens like a board when her hand accidentally brushes his stomach.

They figure it out eventually. Legs haphazardly tangled and arms wrapped around each other’s backs. Their faces are close together but Raenia brings him into her shoulder, stretching out as comfortably as they can.

They lie there shaking, holding one another. 

Comfort blossoms out of it eventually, flourishing into the trust they half share. Neither of them cry, but it feels like he should if he was able to summon the energy for it in the first place. Instead he feels exhausted, boneless and scraped raw.

Raenia’s body tremors violently. “I never told you,” she says, words coming out in a rush. “What happened to me-“

“No, please,” he says, sensing the tension in every inch of her skin. “You don’t have to tell me. You don’t owe me because I shared with you.”

The wracking fear settles into breathless relief. “Thank you. I can’t- thanks.”

“We’ll visit the National Archives,” he decides, changing the subject for her and refusing to be hopeful about it.

“Good.”

Knowing what he knows now should change everything. He shouldn’t be able to close his eyes without seeing rivers of blood. Sleep should not come easy to a man like him. 

But it does.

 

  
  


 

He gets woken up in the night. Not by his own nightmare, though it definitely was approaching the alarming territory of memory interposed with reality. The reality of his kills. But he wasn't in the full throes of it yet. This isn't his nightmare.

It's Raenia’s.

She thrashes in her sleep, painful murmured sounds until he’s able to shake her awake. By then she’s drenched in sweat and openly crying.

“How many hours do you normally get?” he probes delicately, not wishing to upset her more than she is already.

Though she's clearly aggravated, the situation is of no shock to her. Raenia presses her fists into her eye sockets forcefully in frustration but her lower lip is trembling. “Only three or four.”

“That’s good,” he says encouragingly. “I used to not make a full hour. That you can sleep at all is an incredible accomplishment. Don’t dismiss it cause you think it’s not good enough.”

Raenia wipes the tears from her face and manages a begrudging smile, shoving lightly at his chest. “When did you get all wise?”

“It was the whiskey,” he promises. “Always brings out the smartass in me. You hungry? I can cook a mean omelette.”

She nods despite the fact that the murky darkness outside signals this is not the custom time for food and as neither of them care much, soon they’re cooking breakfast at three in the morning. The familiar task brings him out of his head for a while, the smells of tomato and warm food are a pointed reminder that he hasn’t eaten in a long time. Some grub would be good. Raenia probably hasn't eaten much either.

“You seem… Okay? Or better than yesterday at least,” she says around a mouthful once he's finished and set the omelettes on two separate plates. 

He used the rest of the eggs in her fridge on his own omelette because he's starving and needs that little bit extra to satisfy his appetite.

He sips coffee from one of Raenia’s chipped mugs and thinks about the question. “I’m not but I think distance and a new perspective helped.”

“As Jay you mean?”

“Yeah, before I could never have thought about it like I do now.”

“I’m glad. About that part. Not about how it happened.”

He doesn’t answer and refuses to think about the person who made this happen. He can’t. Not yet.

It hurts too much.

 

  
  


At five o’clock, the time he’s typically awake and preparing to go for a run throughout the city, his phone buzzes with a text from Sam.

**Hey man. Cap told me what happened. I’m at your place, was hoping we could go for a run. Where are you?**

The message makes him angry. That Sam can still pretend to be his friend after all of this. And that hurt makes him foolish.

 **I remember everything,** he replies. **Fuck off Sam.**

Instantly, he knows it’s a mistake. Acting with his emotions only serves to make his decisions more irrational and impractical. Because of course, Sam will report this to _him_. Now he’ll come looking earlier than predicted, all because he couldn't leave it alone.

 _But that’s what you want right?_ A nasty voice purrs into his ear and it’s even more dismaying to know that the voice is his own. 

For once.

He swiftly turns off his iPhone and takes it apart to remove the sim card.

They leave at nine o’clock since the building is open at ten and when they do the disassembled parts of his cell phone are left abandoned on Raenia’s table. They can’t track it here. Otherwise he would have destroyed it.

They get the subway to Battery Park and head toward Bowling Green since that’s where the National Archives are.

By then, he’s hungry again so he eats a second breakfast whilst Raenia orders another coffee. They still don’t touch, not even after sharing a bed last night but there's a notable difference in the way they interact. It's typical for the bonds between people to be strengthened by sharing an intense experience together. Or a secret.

It’s definitely more than half-trust between them now. Maybe even three quarters.

The young man who works at the National Archives becomes exceedingly animated when they mention wanting to read about James Buchanan Barnes.

“I’m sorry, not many people ask about Bucky anymore,” he says, explaining why he’s suddenly so enthusiastic to help. “There was all this renewed interest in him a few years ago when Captain America came back from the ice, he actually visited this building, would you believe it? Though I wasn’t on shift, which was totally unfortunate- but now it’s died down again.”

Raenia seems to have no patience for this kind of eagerness today and scowls. “We’re interested.”

“I can’t wait to tell my boyfriend, Hiroto,” he announces, unaware of her gruff, dismissing tone. “His grandfather was a Howling Commando and Bucky saved his life on more than one occasion. Bucky was the best sniper in their unit, did you know that?”

“Jim Morita,” he provides automatically.

“Yes, that’s him. Hiroto’s grandfather.”

His fingers twitch with a phantom need to hold a rifle in his hands. “Is he still-?”

The young man finally loses some of his earlier fervour. “No. He passed away last September. It was a sad day for everyone. He was a great man and he treated me like I was his own grandson. Didn’t give a shit I was dating a boy like my parents did.”

He seems to realise what he’s said and his skin flushes. “Oh no. I’m sorry, that was totally unprofessional. I’m just really passionate about Bucky Barnes and Hiroto’s found a lot of queer readings on his relationship with Steve Rogers that speculate that their friendship went deeper than just companionship. That maybe they were in love with each other and- I should probably stop talking now.”

A warm fluttery feeling stirs in his breastbone, even amidst all of the fresh hurt and he can’t fault the guy for wanting to see more of himself in this harsh world.

“It’s alright,” he says. “I bet Bucky Barnes must've loved him a lot to follow him to hell and back.”

The guy smiles broadly, at ease again and leaves them in order to locate an available reading room to use.

“You’re not him you know,” Raenia says eventually, pulling him out of a time where there was no Captain America yet, only a mouthy spitfire from Brooklyn who wouldn’t take the mistreatment of others, of any kind.

God, he was so in love then and he never even knew it. 

“Not who?”

“The man in black.”

He stiffens at the suggestion, wondering how it could be that he keeps forgetting that for even a second. And without being constantly plagued by everything that he's done. At least not anymore.

“Okay.”

“I’m serious,” Raenia insists, and her eyes are bright and shiny with fury. “That was a truly fucking kind thing you just did. You’re a good person, despite all of that. You teach vulnerable people how to protect themselves. You use the knowledge they implanted in you to bring people together across language barriers. Yeah, you’ve been through the metaphorical blender, but you’re still _kind_.”

The man is back before anything else can be said but his cheeks are flushed from the firm, emphatic praise. Raenia's kind too, even if she's less inclined to believe it like he is. The man smiles at them encouragingly and he needs to duck his head to get it together when they’re finally led into the room.

It’s not too cramped which is good for both of their mutual issues with enclosed spaces. The man is helpful enough to bring in every single document and supply them with gloves to handle them properly. There’s photos, enlistment and draft records, and casualty records. He leaves them to peruse all of it, a slight skip in his step that Bucky would never have believed possible of someone working here if he hadn't seen it with his own eyes. 

He seems exactly like the type of man a grandson of Jim Morita could be happy with.

Raenia finds the draft records first. “I didn’t know you didn’t enlist.”

A sardonic smile follows the announcement. “I told you I’m no hero.”

“Right cause I bet it had nothing to do with staying behind and looking after Steve.”

He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. She's getting it all messed up. “Look, yeah. That was a lot of it, a whole fucking bunch of it. My dad died at Camp Lehigh in 1937 in an accident during basic training and I never wanted to set foot there as long as I lived, but mostly I didn’t want to go because I was fucking terrified of war.”

That's the truth of it. He was more coward than even Steve realised. He can hear the shame colouring the words and wonders if these records means Captain America knew. That he was this kind of man all along.

“Like _any_ human being,” Raenia says, not letting him feel badly about it. “Everything about the war was propaganda just so more men and women might lay down their lives. There’s nothing dishonourable about that and I wasn’t wrong either. You are a hero.”

He rolls his eyes because she's never gonna let it go so there's less point arguing about it and goes back to reading documents instead. “Some hero. It didn’t matter though, I got drafted and sent to Camp McCoy in Wisconsin instead, part of the 107th Infantry Regiment. I lied to him about it. Said I enlisted myself. He knew in the end though. The serial numbers gave me away.”

“Who cares? He definitely didn’t.”

“But he does now.”

“About serial numbers?”

He carefully sets a piece of paper down, gloved hands cold and numb even in the carefully neutral temperature of the room. “About what kind of person I am. That’s why he got rid of me.”

“You really think that’s all it took? After a near seventy years of being both separated and inseparable?”

“Why else am I here?”

His anger is filling up too many spaces in this room, so he exhales and tries to let it go. Tries to keep searching. There's no point getting all riled up. What's done is way past done.

They don’t find much anyway. There’s a lot of pictures of him and Steve and the rest of the Howling Commandos, Dum Dum, Morita, Jones, Falsworth and Dernier. Peggy.

He wonders if any of them else are still alive. The photos don’t tell him much. Except that Steve was staring after Peggy whilst he was staring after him. It’s so clearly preserved in almost every photograph that it's no wonder there’s queer historical readings about him now.

Steve too. Since he’s bisexual. God, in all the rush of remembering he somehow hadn’t recalled _that_. Steve never said anything to him about it before. Not once.

He finds the casualty records first and it’s funny somehow, because both of them are glaringly incorrect. The first he’s never seen before, a letter addressed to home, letting them know he’s dead after he got captured by Zola the first time. Before the experiments and before Steve came and rescued him like he’d never even considered another option. The other is after he fell from the train and Zola found him again.

And then the Winter Soldier was born.

Letters to home. _Home_.

“Fuck. My family,” he gasps, urgency wrenching him out of the chair. “My sister. She might still be alive.”

Hope ruptures foolishly in his heart, invigorated with frantic energy as Raenia hurriedly tugs out her phone. “What’s her name?”

“Rebecca Barnes- she was younger than me. Shit, she probably married though.”

Raenia is furiously typing the search into Google and doesn’t answer. “She did. To some guy Walter Proctor. Had two kids, George and Winifred.”

“Those were my parent’s names,” he says, faintly, bursting with some unnamed emotion.

“Oh,” she says softly. “Rebecca died this year in February. I’m sorry.”

He deflates immediately, enthusiasm abandoning him at the crushing information. But he knew that somehow. Of course she wouldn’t be alive to see him like this. Maybe that's a good thing. He grits his teeth and pushes through the ripple of pain. “What date?”

“The fifth.”

He thinks about it, putting the pieces together. “I showed up here in Jackson Heights two weeks after that.”

Raenia pauses, troubled and thinking along the same lines that he is. “Do you think that’s why-?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything.”

“You were on the news before that remember? You saved him from that rocket launcher.”

“But I still ended up _here_ ,” he snaps, frustrated and lashing out.

Raenia fires up automatically. “Don’t give me that shit just because I’m around to listen.”

“Sorry. You’re right." 

She is. He's hurt and being an unreasonable jackass. "Let’s just go.”

“Don’t you want to read anymore?”

“I died twice and they were wrong both times. What’s there to know?”

They put everything back into its place and wait for the man dating Morita’s grandson to return.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” he wonders when he peers into the open doorway.

“Yeah, thanks,” he says, already walking out toward the exit before pausing. “Hey, you got a pen and paper?”

The young man procures both from the pocket of his shirt and hands it over with a bright smile. He scribbles down a number he knows by memory and hands it back.

“What’s your name anyway?”

“I’m Jacob,” he says offering his hand to shake whilst reading the words on paper. “Whose number is-?“

“It’s Steve Rogers’ personal contact number,” he says, without guilt. Jacob’s mouth drops open. “I’m sure if you and Hiroto gave him a call he’d love to meet up, tell stories about Morita.”

“This is a joke right,” he says, unsure. “This isn’t really Captain America’s phone number.”

He shrugs. “Call and find out.”

They walk through the main hallway, moving together toward the main doors. 

“Wait,” Jacob calls, hurrying to catch up with them. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name.”

“Jay-“ he starts, preparing to lie, but finds he doesn’t want to. “-mes Buchanan Barnes. But I still go by Bucky. Tell Hiroto his grandfather was good man but he was lousy at poker and never knew how to watch his six.”

Jacobs eyes are wide and startled and they leave him standing there in the middle of the marble floors.

“Was that a revenge thing? On uh-?” Raenia wonders when they’re outside.

“No, he’d actually do it,” he replies. “I might not know him inside and out like I used to but he’d meet with them to talk about Jim. For sure.”

“Yeah, you’re not a good person _at all_ ,” Raenia mutters sarcastically, leading them out into the sunshine.

He frowns and doesn’t reply.

 

  
  


 

They stop by the supermarket to buy food before returning to her apartment since Raenia can’t keep up with his overzealous stomach. He could go home, and it’s strange now to think of Jackson Heights as his home when it’s always been Brooklyn but there’s no doubt that Steve, Sam or Natasha are waiting for him there.

So Raenia’s place is the better option. She doesn’t mind housing a guest, especially in light of his changed circumstances and he’s grateful for that. He owes her for so much more than he could ever begin to thank her for.

Raenia is a true friend. 

He’s only just stepping out of the bathroom wringing his dried hands together distractedly when Raenia’s door unexpectedly explodes off its hinges, slamming deafeningly against the floor with a colossal thud that shakes the floorboards beneath his feet.

It’s Steve and breath seizes in his throat at the sight of him filling up the doorway. 

Raenia, who’s in the kitchen putting groceries away, steps determinedly into his path and when he catches sight of her, Steve's expression loses some of its initial harshness. He’s frowning, sizing her up to analyse a threat and finding none worth the overkill of a super serum soldier looming in the doorway of her apartment, geared up for a fight.

“Damn,” he mutters as if he’s kicked in the wrong door but Raenia is already hauling off and punching him in the throat.

The guy she’s _supposedly_ a hug fan of. 

He could’ve made a move to deter her but there's a part of him that is petty enough to savour the retribution by witnessing this. Just as another part furiously declares that Steve could’ve defended himself but chose not to. For someone always picking fights, not once has he ever figured out how to finish them.

That infuriates him almost as much as this entire situation.

Raenia stands there frozen as if she can’t believe that she just punched Captain America and slowly lowers her hand. He has no such qualms, since he taught her how to do it correctly in the first place.

“Steve,” he snaps, fury coiling in his fists and every line of his body when Steve finally glimpses him beyond the commanding figure Raenia makes. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Bucky,” he says, mollified as the sheer menace of his flexed form slackens at once.

Bucky stills when Steve’s face opens up like an invitation before he's rushing forward and to the incredulity of everyone in the room, _collapsing_ to his knees and throwing his arms around his waist.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs into Bucky's hip and he hates the way his body jumps under the contact or the thrill at watching, Steve, a man who’ll stand up for anything, get on his knees like this. 

For Bucky. 

It’s not debasing, but it feels like Steve is submitting some kind of power of trust anyway. Steve's unbelievably warm like he's always been since the serum and pleasure curls in his gut at the reignited contact between them. It's been so long and he's missed him more than words. That doesn't make the fury boiling in his blood any softer though.

“How did you even find-?”

A blur smashes through Raenia’s window and he reaches instinctively for a weapon that isn’t there, protecting Steve with his body before he recognises the metal wings.

“What the fuck, Sam?” he shouts, rage flaring again at the scattered glass littering the living room when Sam lands on his feet, wings tucking into the gear strapped to his back as Raenia curses and ducks behind the counter. 

“You couldn’t use the door Steve fucking broke _in half_ already?”

At least they’re in civilian clothing instead of their combat gear. This is humiliating enough.

“She’s Hydra, Jay,” he announces unhelpfully, pointing at the space where Raenia was standing. “I mean, Bucky. Uh-”

Bucky curses and tries to push Steve back, to make him _let go_ but he won’t budge. “She isn’t Hydra- Steve, what the-“

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, sincere as all hell and if he looks down into the blue of his eyes right now he knows he’s done for. “I knew as soon as I’d done it, that it was a mistake.”

Bucky just can’t keep up with any of this. ”Then why did you wipe me?”

Steve releases his grip, startled. “I didn’t, Buck. That was your decision.”

This lie hurts more coming from Steve because he knows all of the vulnerable places to strike. “Don’t _do_ that to me. Don’t make me doubt myself. I know I would never have gone through with this again, not if it meant forgetting you.”

Steve’s features wither and the heart wrenching pain that shrouds his eyes is a caustic slap to the face. “You weren’t handling the memories of what happened so you asked to forget. I didn’t tell you there was a higher than fifty per cent chance of you losing your memories of me during the process. I couldn’t. You were hurting too much and there was nothing I could do about it. Except that.”

“So you lied to me,” he gathers, the announcement sitting heavily on his chest.

Of course. Of course, Steve would do that. Even at his own expense. And it _was_ at his own expense. Bucky knows that he's been depressed, Sam and Natasha's comments and Steve's behaviour has made that pretty clear. At the time it was another part of the unexplainable lure that drew Jay to Steve once they'd finally come across each other, wanting to make him smile for real and help lift some of that burden off of his shoulders. 

He just hadn't known then that he was the reason for it. 

“Yes.”

He can’t look Steve in the face right now so he steps around him to check on Raenia instead. By now she’s emerged from the protection of the kitchen and her expression is thunderous.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” she grouses, but she’s trembling all over. This has her more shook up than she’s willing to admit.

“How did you find this place?” he asks Sam who’s frowning at the exchange between them.

Raenia let’s out a frustrated groan. “Let me guess, Natasha?”

Steve’s on his feet, stepping into the vacant space behind Bucky’s back as Sam tilts his head in disbelief. “How did you-?”

“I gave her my number when we met,” she explains to Bucky. “That’s how they tracked us here. I’d forgotten about- dammit I knew I shouldn’t have done that. But I mean, she's Black Widow and I was so excited to meet her that I-”

Raenia trails off abruptly and Bucky can tell that she's flustered so he drops the line of questioning in order to glare at Sam. Sam folds his arms gruffly, embarrassed as if he’s starting to realise that there was no real emergency to begin with. “So, you’re- not Hydra?”

Bucky wants to knock him over for letting Natasha manoeuvre him so easily and Raenia finally loses her patience. “Oh my God, how have you not figured this out? Natasha lied to you in order to get you here. Guess who got tricked into communicating with each other.”

She motions furiously at all of them before levelling an accusatory glare at Bucky which he knows is deserved and then at Steve still hovering anxiously at his back. She mutters something under her breath that sounds a lot like, “Stupid fucking men.”

Bucky can understand that at least. 

“You two need to sit down and talk. And you and me,” she pauses, pointing forcefully at Sam. “Are going to go for a walk and pretend we’re doing something productive.”

“And you’re paying for the damages to her apartment,” Bucky adds, staring meaningfully at Sam and doing his best to stubbornly disregard Steve at his shoulder.

“We will. Of course,” Steve says, contrite as he steps around Bucky, not content to just stand behind him without taking full responsibility. “I’m sorry I startled you before. I wasn’t thinking straight. I’m Steve Rogers- and uh- that was a really great punch.”

He tries to stop Steve when he extends his hand in greeting but Raenia remarkably accepts the gesture. Maybe she regrets hitting him after all. 

“I’m Raenia and Bucky taught me.”

Steve shifts a little and inclines his head, with a question on his lips.

“I teach self-defence,” Bucky explains, unwilling to get into it right now.

The amusement that Steve tries to hide behind a clenched jaw because he knows now is not the time for it, is an entirely embittering and welcome sight. The fact that Bucky’s teaching people how to avoid or stop fights since that’s all he did throughout their childhood does seem a little ironic.

To be fair, though, Steve is always the one who started them.

“And we’re leaving now,” Raenia asserts a second later when they do nothing but continue staring at one another.

Sam seems like he wants to say something but they’re going to have to table that discussion for later. Raenia grabs her coat and heads out through the open frame without a glance at the heavy door laid out unbecomingly on her floor. Sam follows after a backward glance at the two of them.

Bucky doesn't look at Steve but stalks over towards the couch to sit down, hearing Steve’s light footsteps as he follows.

“This is fucked up, Steve. Even for you,” he says uncivilly when they’re settled. 

Two huge super soldiers easily fill up the entire length of the couch. It’s a good thing no one else is joining them. Bucky rubs at his eyes as an excuse not to look at him for a little while longer. 

“I know,” he replies, miserably. “There wasn’t any other option. You weren’t coping.”

“My sister died.”

“I know, Buck,” he says gently. “We went to her funeral together.”

Something in his chest eases at that, staring at his fingers splayed out across his thighs intently. “We did?”

“Yeah, you’d been doing a little better in those past few weeks, we’d even gone to visit her a few times and I’d hoped- maybe you were improving, maybe things were working out and then Rebecca died.”

“And I got worse,” he guesses.

Steve knows this tension is too volatile between them to touch but he sits close enough that the heat of his body can be felt anyway. He cannot help but shift marginally towards it. “Buck ‘worse’ isn’t even _close_ to what you got. You were an open wound and you were disappearing into it.”

“So I asked to forget.”

It's not that unexpected after all, especially after losing Rebecca. Steve wrings his hands together and his breath catches at the sight of those artist fingers, still somewhat delicate and infused with strength.

“Not at first. Not until that Hydra agent dumped information on the circumstances of Howard and Maria Stark’s death on Tony’s doorstep.”

Coldness steals into his fingertips. “The mission I completed.”

“Tony came at you when you were already in a bad place and you spiralled from there. Natasha still had contacts within what was left of SHIELD, doctors she trusted and they thought they might be able to recreate the wipe to help you deal with the trauma you survived.”

“But I’d forget who you were.”

“Anything too complicated, remembering some things and forgetting others and it wouldn’t have worked. It was a price I was willing to pay.”

“ _For_ me,” Bucky stresses. “You didn’t even give me the chance to make that decision.”

Steve's expression is painfully beseeching. “Would the outcome have been any different?”

He can’t say for certain except that he would have agonised over the decision. But in the end he doubts he would have been able to go through with it, not with Steve as collateral. Bucky's too selfish to give him up. There's no point hurting Steve more by telling him that though because he knows the concern came from the right place even if he acted on it in the wrong way.

“Lying to protect me is still lying.”

Steve’s smile is hopeful and wretched. “You did the same to me, remember? When you first got back. You were acting like everything was fine and you were so convincing that at first I believed you. But you were shielding me from all of it, keeping your feelings hidden like you always used to. Even when we were teenagers.”

He remembers. But he learnt that lesson the hard way.

“Promise me,” Bucky presses. “You gotta promise me you’ll never do something like this to me ever again, even if it is to spare pain and I’ll promise to do the same.”

“Buck-“

“You either promise this, Steve or I leave and you never see me again.”

Steve sets his jaw determinedly. “I’d only come looking for you.”

“You’d never see me again,” he stresses, emphatically, fingers clenching.

“I found you before.”

“Because I _let_ you.”

Steve is silent for a second, unconvinced and struggling with himself. But his heart wins out. It always does. “Okay, I promise, Buck. I promise.”

“I thought- after it all came back, that you’d washed your hands of me.”

The noise that escapes Steve’s mouth is achingly distressed. “Bucky, _no_. God, you don’t know how this has been killing me. I had them promise not to tell me where you were living 'cause I knew I wasn’t strong enough to stay away. And I was so angry with Sam when I found out what he’d done, so infuriated that he got to share all these new experiences with you and I didn’t.”

“You didn’t tell Sam to join my language class?”

“No,” Steve promises. “He was making a point.”

“What point?”

“That I was miserable and he wanted me to know that you were happy without me.”

The statement renders his heart in two. “I wasn’t,” he says. “I mean, I was, but I knew that it wasn’t real. There were too many gaps to fill and something was still missing.”

Steve’s face falls, crushed that maybe all of this was for nothing.

“It wasn’t,” Bucky assures him. “I was an exposed nerve when I came back with you and there was nothing to stop me feeling the weight of it all. Forgetting for a while was like putting a Band-Aid over a bullet hole but it still did something. It was _still_ a bandage. I’m not an open wound any more.”

The soft noise of helpless relief Steve releases makes him feel warm all over. “I’m real glad, Buck. You’ve no idea.”

“Where have you been staying? At Avengers Tower or the facility in upstate New York?”

“Neither,” Steve admits, tension settling into his words. The sudden awkwardness tells him that there's more to it. “I moved out after everything that happened with Tony. I’m back in my place in Brooklyn, maybe you don’t remember-“

“The one you wanted us to live in before I fell apart. I remember. We spent a couple days there before- they wiped me.”

Steve winces. “Sorry.”

Bucky only shrugs. 

“Look, I understand if you can’t trust me anymore. If you don’t- want to see me again because of this. I just want you to know, that it’s the worst thing I’ve ever done and I only had your best interests at heart.”

Annoyance ripples across his face at the realisation that Steve is falling back onto automatic self-deprecation. All for the sake of pursuing some noble purpose and hollowed out integrity that serves everyone but himself. 

“Why do you always do that?” he snaps, aggravated. “You’ll fight til you’re bloody in defence of someone else but when it comes to what you want you don’t even think about asking for it.”

The accusation startles him as if nobody has ever thought to ask such a thing of Steve before and that only infuriates Bucky further. 

“I just don’t wanna be selfish,” he confesses and it makes him laugh, loud and disdainfully.

What a thought. Steve actually being selfish. 

Of fucking course. Because why would he even think about doing something for himself? He’s been an object of the U.S military and the media for almost all of his life. A different kind of asset than the Winter Soldier but an asset all the same.

Does he even stand for what he believes in anymore? Or does he stand where they tell him?

“You’ve never been greedy in your life," he snaps. "Selfless little Stevie don’t even know what to do with yourself without all the honour and bone marrow you give everybody else.”

Steve’s jaw clenches, hands twitching against his thighs as if he’s restraining the instinct to curl them into fists. “Why are you saying this? You tryin’ to hurt me like I hurt you?”

“No. Jesus, you’re a punk. All’s I’m asking is what you want.”

Steve doesn’t respond as if the idea is so incomprehensible it’s not even something he can wrap his head around. Let alone answer.

“Buck-“

“What do you want? Huh, Steve?” And he’s pushing now, riling him up like he knows best. “ _What do you want_?”

Steve’s temper is almost as explosive as his need to do what’s right, especially if someone knows what buttons to push. And Bucky’s familiar with all of them. His hands clench so tightly some of the bones crack and he bursts to his feet, calm, soldier-like posture forgotten.

“I don’t wanna let you go,” he bursts out, voice shaken. “I know you’re angry but it won’t keep me away. I’ll stick around until you’re ready to forgive me. I’ll do anything to make things right again. You think you’ve been following me your whole life but you’re wrong. You’re _wrong_ , Buck. Ever since you stepped in and finished off Henry Wilson and his gang in the second grade after they tried to steal my money, I’ve been following you.”

Bucky can’t watch him when he’s like this. Brutally honest and heart-wrenchingly earnest with every breath. He’ll do anything for him if Steve ever thought to ask.

“You don’t even stick up for yourself against me,” he says, aggrieved by the thought. “God, Steve, Why’d you let me kiss you?”

But that’s not the only question he’s asking. Why is Steve wearing his dog tags around his neck like some heartfelt avowal? Why did Sam say Steve was just getting out of a relationship and still hung up on someone? On Bucky? Because who else would he have been talking about? Why didn’t Steve ever tell him he liked men as well as women?

Steve’s skin flushes at the reminder so exquisitely that he can’t think straight. His fingertips reach out to touch his mouth as if chasing the sensation of Bucky’s kiss before he seems to think better of it and forces his hand away.

“No, it’s okay, Buck,” he promises, earnestly obtuse. “You were confused. It was an honest mistake.”

Bucky frowns. He wasn’t confused then and he certainly isn’t confused now. 

But if that’s how Steve wants it he’s not going to force the issue and make things more uncomfortable between them. Steve’s giving him an out here because he's unwilling to have this conversation and risk their friendship by rejecting him. 

That’s fine, he can understand that. Steve wants men. He just doesn’t want Bucky. At least not like that.

It’s crushing, going through this again. He’d pushed it down so far during the war so it couldn’t hurt either of them but living like Jay has brought it all to the surface. The mess of his heart is going to need some time to repress all of those uncontrollable feelings again. 

After so long, it’s not going to be easy.

He feels stupid for letting his heart trick him into this, give him hope that Steve is the guy for him, is always gonna be the guy for him.

“I know forgiving me is gonna take some time,” Steve continues and he has to physically draw himself back into the conversation. “But if you want, if you want… maybe you could come and live with me again?”

That’s only going to make the ache _worse_ , being so close but unable to breach the distance. He can’t do it. Not yet. It’ll ruin him.

“No,” he says hurriedly as Steve’s expression crumbles with hurt. “Just- not yet. It’s too soon. Maybe- give it some time.”

“Of course. I understand.”

“I’m not quitting my jobs either,” he adds. “I’ve got two weeks left before the courses finish so I’ll stay Jay until after that’s done and then I’ll reassess everything.”

“Sure, Buck,” Steve agrees, trying to hide his conflicted emotions and seem enthusiastic.

But Bucky can read him like no other.

“What are you doing now anyway?” he wonders, hoping to steer them away from any further discussion of feelings. It’s harder to lie to Steve than most people since he knows all of his tells and he can only keep it up for so long. “You working for Fury?”

“Sort of? It’s a little hard to work for a guy who’s still legally dead and a company that’s supposedly disbanded. Mostly just Avengers stuff.”

“Hydra,” he assumes, nausea rolling in his gut at the thought.

“And aliens,” Steve adds, straight faced even when Bucky raises an eyebrow. “You’d be surprised.”

He can’t think of anybody who wouldn’t be. “I’d bet.”

“Just- are we gonna be okay?” Steve asks, hesitant and hopeful.

“We will,” he promises, because it’s not enough to just exist in the world if Steve isn’t in it. “Just- give me a little time.”

The relief he mirrors is staggering. Steve’s body goes loose with it. “Thank God. Fuck- I just- that’s. Can I touch you?- please.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, swallowing hard when Steve kneels and presses into the open space of Bucky’s splayed legs, sinking into his arms. 

Steve holds him so tightly that he can’t breathe but he doesn’t care, just grips Steve’s shoulders and pulls him closer, slotting their bodies together. 

They fit like this. They always have, no matter what size Steve is and when Steve buries his face into his throat, Bucky tips his head back and stares at the ceiling and tries not to let it overwhelm him.

But he’s fighting a losing battle. Everything about Steve Rogers has always been overwhelming. They stay there for a long time, longer than he should, because even though Steve’s never been selfish, Bucky’s doesn’t have that problem.

He’s always been greedy for things he can’t have.

Bucky slouches against the couch, tension slipping out of him completely at the consolation of Steve in his arms, cradled between his thighs. It's so easy to be intimate like this, like breathing air even after going so long without the constant reassurance of touch. Steve only moves with his body, mostly on top of him now and it feels unfairly good.

Abruptly, he remembers the dream he had, the one that hadn’t been a dream. Before Captain America. Before the war, just the two of them in their shitty apartment when he’d drank enough to be brave. Brave enough to pretend they could have this.

They never talked about it afterward but it’s one of the memories he never lost, one that slipped into Jay’s subconscious because it meant that much.

To him at least.

He pulls away first when it gets too raw and Steve follows after him before he becomes aware of what he’s done and stiffens, forcibly letting go.

They’re only just separating when Natasha enters the destroyed doorway, catching sight of Bucky over Steve’s shoulder and smirks. The helpless warmth burning in his chest sputters out and he’s abruptly aware that his eyes are wet. Natasha misses nothing during the second that she glances between them.

“What a pretty picture,” she says and Steve’s ears turn red when he rocks to his feet, all straight posture and super soldier again.

“I think you’ve already done enough,”

“You better have apologised to Raenia,” Bucky mutters. “You just exposed her only safe space and made it vulnerable. That was her personal security you put at risk by sending Steve after her. Even if you wanted to mess with Steve and Sam you shouldn't have brought her into it.”

Something flickers behind the soft smirk pulling at her lips and he knows that the words got through to her. Good. 

Natasha knows exactly what Raenia’s been through and the cost of this confrontation won’t be insignificant. Steve’s mouth twists and his eyes shift toward the door spread out neatly across her hardwood floor and Bucky knows the barb he meant for Natasha struck him as well.

Raenia comes back into the room a minute later, shouldering several boxes of pizza, Sam guarding her back with garlic bread and a couple bottles of complimentary soda.

“This seemed like a situation that needed pizza,” Sam declares unnecessarily, ducking his head a little when his eyes slide over Bucky on the couch.

So not as unaffected by what happened as he’s trying to appear to be. Good to know.

“Falcon boy paid for it,” Raenia adds, carefully observing him to check he’s alright just as Bucky is doing the exact same thing to her.

They seem to realise what’s happening and grin, turning away together, embarrassed by their own concern for each other.

“That is on the down low,” Sam repeats, forcefully and Natasha laughs. 

The smell of pizza fills the open space and he’s reminded that he and Raenia never got around to eating lunch before they were interrupted.

No time like the present.

They don’t even set the boxes down before Steve is approaching Raenia, huge fucking super soldier bearing down on her all at once. Bucky leaps to his feet but he’s too far away to stop him from doing anything stupid.

He’s expecting trouble but instead Steve’s body softens, hunches in on itself with lax, open hands, as he quickly resembles something unthreatening. Unlike Natasha, he actually pulls it off, seemingly much more like the little Steve from Brooklyn than Captain America in that moment. 

It’s hard to feel threatened by that doughty guy. 

“Raenia, I’m real sorry that we busted up your apartment. I’m not usually so careless and what we did was-“

He’s lost for a second and it’s a good thing Bucky’s reached him by now, fingers caught in the fabric of his shirt at his lower back just for something to hold onto. But Steve’s careful not to stand too close to Raenia and keeps clear boundaries between them. 

“Really shitty,” he offers helpfully.

“Extremely shitty,” Steve clarifies, barefaced. “We’ll make sure it gets fixed but if you want someplace safe and secure to stay while it’s sorted, there’s a lot of spare rooms in the Tower.”

“What about Tony?” Bucky wonders and the question is a loaded weapon in the exposed room.

Steve doesn’t react badly though so maybe the situation isn’t as unstable as it used to be. “You’re not the only one who’s gotten some new perspective lately.”

That leaves him eager to know more but now is not the right time. Raenia blinks at Steve, mouth falling open. 

“Holy shit. As in _Avengers Tower_?” she sticks her neck out to address Bucky. “Is he fucking joking?”

Bucky shrugs and his fingers don’t loosen their grip. “He’s not that funny.”

“Fuck you,” Steve says, cheerfully, but steps back into Bucky’s hand welcomingly like he’s chasing the heat there.

If things were different he’d press his hand to Steve’s lower back, curve his fingers around his hip just to link them together in every way imaginable, but they’re not so he doesn’t. 

Bucky lightly detaches from Steve’s shirt and busies himself with the boxes on the counter instead just for something to do. Natasha joins the conversation with Steve and Raenia and from the set of her jaw there’s an apology about to be voiced. He’s burning through his second slice when Sam sidles up to his left.

“I owe you an apology.”

“Damn straight,” he agrees in between bites as Steve tilts his head, clearly listening in. “Inserting yourself into my life to be my fake friend has got to be a new low.”

Sam is genuinely upset by the idea. “I wasn’t faking,” he says. “Look, man, I never liked you and at first I only did this to give Steve some closure.”

Bucky flicks an olive at his chest. “What kind of bullshit apology is that?”

“At _first_ ,” Sam stresses. “I changed my mind about you alright? I see why Steve’s been chasing after you now.”

Steve shifts restlessly, but otherwise doesn’t acknowledge that he’s overhearing everything. Bucky tilts his head, contemplating how badly he wants Sam to squirm. What he did was pretty messed up but Bucky's not too sore about it. It's not as if they'd been friends before all this. 

“C’mon, I willingly hacked up a lung for you on more than one occasion. You bought me beer. We bonded.”

“I bought you _and Steve_ beer,” he refines. “Asshole.”

Sam’s starting to smile now. “Yeah right. Steve was all mopey over you and didn’t even drink any of it.”

He doesn’t allow that to thrill him. “You’re still an asshole.”

“Well so are you,” Sam points out, obligingly. “That’s our thing, man. Trust me, if you’d asked me two years ago I never would’ve guessed I’d be friends with a super soldier let alone two of them, but I’m really glad that’s how things turned out.”

Bucky can’t disagree. They’d had a rocky start when Steve brought him back and it hadn’t seemed like they’d ever get along. Sam had been much too disapproving of his presence for them to even remotely agree on anything. He can't be angry that that's finally changed between them.

“Alright, I guess we can be friends,” he agrees as if he’s doing Sam a favour. 

Sam grins at him, utterly amused. “You dick.”

Bucky smirks, assuming that Steve’s probably loving every second of this but when he turns to survey his expression he isn’t even smiling. Puzzled, he tries to parse out what Steve’s thinking but Steve shields his face as he reaches across Bucky for a slice of pizza before disappearing back to the couch.

Sam is staring at the both of them so Bucky doesn’t react but fetches a glass from the cupboard above the stove and starts filling it with water while he keeps chewing. Steve’s response is distantly familiar, one that he’s seen before and the answer jolts through him a second later.

Steve’s _jealous_. 

His heart pounds at the rush of ideas explaining why he could be feeling such a thing but he doesn’t entertain the thought that it’s because of him. With the new dynamic of he and Sam’s friendship, when Steve used to be the intermediary between them, its no wonder jealousy reared its head.

He’s seen hints of it in Brooklyn. When they were younger, and there were other boys on the playground who wanted to be Bucky’s friend but not Steve’s and later on in the dance halls when Bucky would have two forgettable dames hanging off his arms, laughing and carrying on and Steve would be standing or sitting alone in the corner.

It’s the way his jaw clenches and his eyes turn down as if he’s embarrassed of his own emotions. Like jealously isn't a natural emotion and it's something he ought to be ashamed of instead. Bucky’s been plenty jealous of anybody getting close to Steve as well, Peggy Carter had been a woman deserving of Steve’s love when he wasn’t and he’d resented her deeply for that. Especially since he'd never met another dame as incredible or competent as her. 

Jealousy is strange that way.

It shouldn’t make him feel good, thinking about this, not when he knows Steve will agonise over it later, beat himself up for feeling this way like he’s not allowed to.

It’s a very human response and people don’t always give him that. Think that there’s a human under all that muscle and legendary uniform.

But there is.

And Bucky will love him until he dies.

 

  
  


 

Raenia only agrees to stay at Avengers Tower after Bucky and Natasha declare that they’re coming along as well.

As if there was any other choice. 

He can’t in good conscience just throw her to the wolves like that. Bucky grabs his cell phone before they leave and reassembles it so that it’s working again. It lights up immediately with a ridiculous amount of unread texts from Steve, Sam and even Natasha. He pockets it and joins everybody else without reading any of them.

They head out once all of the food has been eaten and it’s sufficiently dark outside, enough that a bunch of Avengers strolling through New York might go unnoticed. Steve already went and spoke to Raenia’s landlord about the state of her apartment and when he finally joins them, he’s scrubbing awkwardly at the base of his neck, which means he’s disappointed with himself. 

He’ll be regretting this incident for a lot longer than anybody else might guess. 

Steve’s always been too good at shouldering all of the blame.

Sam’s apartment is on the way back to Manhattan and since Steve doesn’t have a metrocard- honestly Rogers- and most of the machines are out of order and Steve refuses to jump the barrier on principle, 'cause it's stealing, Buck'- they end up walking back.

Ignoring the fact that they have a functioning Quinjet that is perfectly capable of picking them up. They wouldn’t all fit into a taxi either and he knows Steve doesn’t want them to separate, so they don’t.

Walk it is.

Raenia’s surprisingly comfortable around all of them now, as if punching Captain America in the throat and sharing pizza with him an hour later has somehow ruined the celebrity mystique. As long as she’s relaxed, he’s not complaining. It's important to him that she and Steve will be able to get along with each other.

There are two men across the street approaching from the opposite direction who Bucky has been watching carefully since they came out of an alley two minutes ago. His instincts prove true when they’re close enough to be within hearing distance and call out something offensive and sexually explicit to harass Natasha and Raenia.

Sam tells them to shut the hell up while Natasha smiles, long and predatory, Black Widow emerging instantly as if inviting them to cross the street so they’re within reach of her hands. Raenia stiffens and visibly attempts to ignore them as the men laugh to themselves and keep walking. Bucky directs his attention to where trouble is most likely to originate and it’s great to know that seventy years frozen in ice has done nothing to cool Steve off. 

Because he goes still, jaw clenching and eyes indignant and oh Jesus, Bucky knows exactly what that means. 

“Steve,” he warns, snagging his wrist as if he can physically prevent him from getting worked up over two pricks.

Sam turns back, familiar enough with Steve’s thought process to realise what’s happening when Natasha folds her arms and waits expectantly for the other shoe to drop. Raenia seems to remember whose company they’re in as well and regards Steve with interest, pausing to see what he's about to do. But Bucky knows only too well. 

“It’s alright,” she says, shrugging. “It’s not worth it.”

Oh hell. He winces and raises a hand against his forehead to cover his eyes on sufferance of the inexorable. Perfect. Raenia doesn’t know but those reassuring words never fail to set Steve off. Because to him it’s _always_ worth it. 

Every fucking time.

He releases Steve’s wrist with a sigh and steps back.

“I’m sorry, Raenia,” Steve says genuinely. “But it’s not alright. Street harassment is not something women should ever have to get used to.”

And then he’s disappearing into the night after the two men, jaw clenched firmly with resolve.

“Oh my God,” Raenia says as if she can’t believe it. “I half wondered if maybe that was part of his gimmick, the stubborn inner goodness thing but he’s totally serious. He actually exists, fuck.”

Sam is frowning. “You think he’s gonna beat them up?”

But his concern lies in whether or not Steve needs back up, not in the wellbeing of two men going up against an Avenger. 

Bucky shrugs. “Depends.”

Raenia raises an eyebrow at him. “On what?”

“Whether they’re gonna apologise or not.”

Natasha only rolls her eyes. “I could’ve done that myself but if I did that for every asshole we encounter, I’d never get anything else done.”

He glances back down the street, straining to see anything. He wants to go and check up on Steve but he also doesn’t want to leave Raenia alone.

Bucky’s torn for a moment.

Until Steve returns with both of the men in tow behind him. His knuckles aren’t bloody so he didn’t have to resort to anything physical, the tremendous presence of Captain America lecturing them on sexism and respect had apparently been enough.

One has his hands in his pockets, sufficiently shamed and red faced and the other looks pale and shaky.

“I’m sorry for what I said,” the red-faced man apologises. “It was stupid and it wasn’t funny.”

“Sorry. We didn’t mean to be disrespectful,” the other man adds. “We were just stupid.”

“Stupid is definitely the right word,” Natasha agrees and when they finally recognise her, they’re infinitely more terrified. “You should count yourself lucky that it was Steve that came back for you and not me.”

She dismisses them with a flick of her hand and they stumble over each other in their haste to hurry away. Steve's carefully checking reactions to gauge how upset they might be. But Natasha is entirely gratified by the exchange and Raenia is even beginning to smile a little.

Sam just shakes his head at them, fondly bemused but Bucky is staring at Steve.

“Nothing to prove, huh,” he repeats from a conversation long since passed.

Steve flushes a little but walks ahead with a rigid back and no other acknowledgment of a reply. Bucky smiles grimly after him and Raenia waits until Sam and Natasha have continued on before stalking to his side.

“How is he even real?” she breathes, astonished and staring at Steve's back.

The glow of his hair burns in the dark. His heart is heavy in his chest with want, stirred up just be being around Steve again, breathing in the same space. This all feels so familiar already. 

And it's not going to end well for him of that he can be _absolutely_ assured.

“You think I know the answer to that?”

 

  
  


 

They drop Sam home afterwards before continuing over to the Avengers Tower.

Sam makes a point to organise an early morning run for the next day as if he’s trying to prove that none of this changes anything between them. Steve doesn’t say much about it until Sam remembers to invite him along as well last minute.

Bucky doesn’t act like it’s a problem.

When they finally walk into Avengers Tower, he’s expecting the worst.

Tony might have had a change in perspective since he last saw Bucky but that doesn’t mean he no longer hates him or that the welcome is remotely warm.

“Oh great. The Winter Soldier’s here.”

“Don’t call him that,” Raenia snaps before Steve’s even opened his mouth to come to his defence.

He’s surprised for a second and something flickers behind Steve's expression that he forcibly reels in before Bucky can figure out its meaning. Tony seems to notice Raenia then, startled by the vehemence of her comment as he gives her a judgemental once over that makes Bucky want to clock him.

“Lay off, Tony," he says. "She's done nothing to you." 

Tony ignores him completely. "And who might you be?”

“Raenia. Electrical Engineer,” she announces to the amazement of everyone but Natasha. “Your calibrations of Bucky’s arm were off by a fraction. Any strain releases an infrequent hefty sound emission.”

Tony is abruptly delighted. “Alright. You’re my new best friend. Jarvis call Rhodey and tell him he’s out.”

The AI’s response is immediate. “Calling James Rhodes at once, Mr Stark.”

“Wait, that was a joke. God, you’re terrible.”

“Happy to be of service, Mr Stark,” Jarvis declares and falls silent.

Bucky’s still stuck on Raenia’s comment. “Wait, so you did this to my arm? Made it seem like skin so I wouldn’t know it was fake?”

Tony rolls his eyes. “God, you make it sound so simple. I created a synthetic polymer to mimic the appearance of skin and applied it to the surface of your entire arm, making it resistant to heat and tension and- aw you ruined it.”

Bucky startles before he realises that his sleeves are rolled up, exposing the silver gash across his forearm that reveals the metal beneath. Tony looks distinctly offended by the sight of it.

“We destroyed Raenia’s apartment,” Steve announces, swiftly changing the subject even though he’s frowning at Bucky’s arm too, seemingly realising what must have been done to create such a mark. “She’ll be staying here for a while.”

"Sure, sure, hotel for anybody who feels like it right?”

“Tony,” Bucky growls, knuckles curling.

“Wow, you’re an asshole,” Raenia declares.

“We destroyed her _apartment_ , Tony,” Steve repeats with an edge of emotion and sincerity to it that actually makes Tony back down.

“Fine, fine. I can show you around my work space.”

Raenia's expression is impassive. “Or maybe I could show you.”

Tony must like that because he smirks and instantly offers her a drink, a sure fire way to know when Tony's interest has been caught. Raenia declines the offer before requesting water instead. It makes no difference to Tony because he only shrugs and then brings them all into the communal kitchen anyway.

Clint is sitting shirtless at the table eating a bowl of cereal, looking caught out by the unexpected audience since it’s almost midnight.

He drops the spoon when he sees Bucky and Steve.

“Oh shit,” he murmurs. “Hey guys. Haven’t seen you in a while.”

Steve scratches the back of his neck again and Bucky signs hello. Clint seems startled but signs back an amused reply.

“I didn’t know you knew ASL,” Clint says, impressed.

Steve’s staring at him again so Bucky only shrugs and watches Tony get Raenia her drink instead. Natasha rocks up towards Clint and sits on the table top beside him, peering into his bowl with interest.

“Where’s the Doc?” he asks.

“He’s working in his lab,” Tony replies over his shoulder. “He’s a hermit like me. He only emerges every few weeks for sustenance and the bare minimum of social interaction.” 

Raenia’s eyes are wide. “A few weeks,” she repeats, unaware that Tony’s only half joking.

“He’s fucking with you,” Bucky explains.

“Mostly,” Steve offers.

Raenia accepts the water and seemingly tries to calm herself down. Considering she’s actually standing in the Avengers Tower talking to most of the Avengers it’s a small wonder she’s not freaking out completely. It not everyday that somebody just struts right inside the place to have a look around. Jarvis' security protocols prevent that from ever happening.

Bucky still can’t quite believe he lived here for a few months.

They chat for another hour, mostly harmless stuff. Raenia asks where Thor is and Natasha explains he’s in Asgard right now but apparently has plans to return soon. Steve moves around the room a lot, the both of them gravitating toward one another instinctively before Bucky notices what he’s doing and subtly creates distance.

He’s coming out of the bathroom when he spots Tony leaning against the wall, waiting for him. Bucky tenses, and prepares for a confrontation like last time. This one he knew to expect at least.

“Just to be clear,” Tony says. “I hate you. I hate everything that you represent and I wish you were dead but I don’t hate you.”

Bucky crosses his arms, mouth twitching. “What’s clear about that?”

Tony doesn’t smile but his eyes lose some of the harsh edges around the corners. “Oh, so you’re a little shit, too aren’t you? You were too messed up before to even give the impression of a personality but you're just like Steve.”

He doesn’t relax his pose but some of the tension leaves the air. “Believe me, Steve is worse.”

Tony’s infinitely more interested to hear more on this topic. “I have so many questions for you.”

Bucky hesitates, unsure, fingers scraping against his stubble as he decides whether or not it’s a good idea to bring this up again. “I am sorry,” he says, quietly. “For what happened.”

Tony’s eyes are hard again but he waves a hand through the air dismissively. “We’ve already done this song and dance. You killed my parents whilst under the influence of evil Hydra villains, the truth came out, you said sorry, then I punched you in the face and tried to kill you. Words were exchanged. Bad decisions were made. No point going over it again. What’s done is done.”

It’s certainly not that simple but if that’s how Tony wants things to play out then he has no right to protest. Wanting to change the past won't make what he did any less true.

“Does Steve know?” he wonders apropos of nothing. “That you were still looking for me after the wipe?”

Tony’s mouth turns grim and he thinks maybe he's not allowed to talk about it, their encounter in that café so many months ago. Tony definitely hadn’t anticipated seeing him there or even knew that Bucky wouldn’t remember him.

“You think he would be here if he did?”

So no then. Steve goes a little wild with it whenever somebody sets it upon themselves to go after Bucky and he’s exactly the same when it comes to Steve. They've always been fiercely protective of one another.

It’s hard to tell who is protecting who at this point in their lives. Bucky’s willing to call it an even draw.

Steve enters the hallway behind Tony, because he must’ve detected they’ve been alone together for too long and he’s expecting a fight. They make eye contact, and Bucky silently communicates everything’s fine.

“Right,” he agrees, and tries not to look at Steve when he does so.

“Raenia’s falling asleep standing up,” Steve announces gently and Bucky’s tired too after today.

“Are you- are you both staying?” Tony asks, hesitantly and Steve clearly wasn’t wrong about Tony wanting him back to live in the Tower.

“Just for tonight,” they answer in unison.

Steve’s expression is sympathetic but resolute and Bucky watches Tony’s reaction.

Tony nods, pleased anyway and when they all move back into the kitchen, he heads up to Banner’s floor to see what he’s working on while Clint and Natasha remain where they are, unmoved and still deep in conversation around a now shared bowl of cereal.

Raenia reaches Bucky with a weary smile and Steve leads them into the elevator. Bucky almost refuses, about to say he’ll meet them wherever Steve is directing them, Thor’s empty floor maybe, but Raenia shifts nervously between them and he can’t do it. It would be unfair of him to abandon her now.

His body tightens up incrementally when they stop on the fourth floor. Steve’s floor.

Where there’s only two bedrooms.

Does Steve want them to share a bed like they used to when they were living in Brooklyn and were too poor to afford anything else? Bucky’s saved from the panic that unleashes in him when Steve yawns and moves towards the room he used to sleep in without asking for anything.

The relief doesn’t last long.

He opens the door and turns back to look at them, features sharp in the soft lighting.

“Goodnight,” he says awkwardly and Bucky’s so dumbfounded that he can’t even speak.

“Night, Steve,” Raenia replies, and Steve manages a forced smile before disappearing into the room and shutting it behind him with a soft click.

Bucky sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose to ease the mounting exasperation.

“Does he think we’re-“ Raenia begins, gesturing meaningfully between them.

“Yeah,” he mutters, staring hard at that closed door with a growing frown. “He’s an idiot.”

Raenia snorts and goes to open up the door next to it, the one he used to live in. It’s perfectly empty, not a inch of personality to it that might hint it belongs to him or that anyone ever even slept there but he knows where every single knife and gun is hidden in the room and that’s good enough. 

Tony wasn't wrong about him not having much personality in those months in the Tower before he became Jay. 

The most emotion he'd ever shown was solely around Steve and that had only been an illogical effort to convince him that everything was still fine when it wasn't. He's learnt from that though. Now he knows better than to pretend like that again.

There’s still some spare clothes sitting untouched in the drawer so he throws Raenia a pair of sweatpants and frowns when he can’t find his favourite sweater amongst the pile. He leaves her in the room for a moment and heads out to the bathroom and quickly brushes his teeth.

Then he goes to the kitchen. This one is slightly smaller than the communal one but just as extravagant. He doesn’t want to think of how many billions of dollars went into the construction of Avengers Tower. It will only make his stomach hurt.

Steve didn’t grab his glass of water yet so when he fetches a glass from the cupboard he grabs two and fills them up with filtered tap water. He’s only just brought the cup to his lips when Steve’s door quietly opens and he slips out.

He’s shirtless and in sweatpants that ride low on his hips, exposing too much skin all at once and he startles at the sight of Bucky in the kitchen before glancing guiltily at the closed door where Raenia is getting undressed.

Steve mouths ‘sorry’ though Bucky has no idea what for and he’s too angry that Steve assumed he’s with Raenia even though he took Steve out for coffee and fucking _kissed_ him that he doesn’t bother to correct the mistake.

Instead, he just hands over the glass of water he poured and doesn’t speak. Steve’s surprised and then grateful, accepting the offering as their fingers touch. Bucky swallows and tries to seem unaffected though Steve isn’t paying enough attention to notice anyway. He drains the glass quickly and Bucky refuses to watch his throat move as he swallows all of it down.

Steve whispers goodnight again after placing the glass in the sink and slips out of Bucky’s space and back into his bedroom. If he wasn’t such a coward he’d go after him. Ask him if Steve wants him to stay.

He knocks on his own door instead, listening for Raenia’s hum of invitation and when he walks in, she’s still wearing the same comfortable shirt accompanied by his sweatpants. It makes a strange outfit.

Bucky sets his glass onto the table and grabs another pair of pants for himself. He doesn’t leave the room but turns away for a modicum of modesty anyway as he gets dressed. He directs her towards the bathroom where there are spare toothbrushes still sitting in unopened packages and waits for her to brush her teeth while he sits on the edge of the bed.

“Do you want me to leave a shirt on?” he checks, when she returns before tugging it off.

“Yes,” Raenia replies, already on the opposite side of the bed and turning away from him.

Bucky obeys and slips in after her and they keep their distance this time, not exactly content to be sharing this space. The other night had been extenuating circumstances where they were both trying their hand at reassuring each other.

“You didn’t tell me you were an electrical engineer,” he admits, without being aggressive about it.

“Child prodigy actually,” Raenia clarifies. “Just like Tony. Only I grew up black and poor and a woman on top of that and nobody wanted to know me.”

“I’m sorry.”

He can feel the bed move as Raenia rolls her shoulders. “I got my Master degrees in physics, electrical engineering and computer science eventually but I’m still paying them off even now.”

Even he can tell how impressive that is. “Maybe you can show Tony something.”

Raenia laughs exuberantly. “I can show him a _lot_ of somethings.”

He’s glad. At least there's something positive to experience in the mess of Bucky's life imploding around her. “I’m sorry I dragged you into this.”

“I’m not.”

They fall silent after that and he allows his eyes to close before slipping slowly into sleep.

 

  
  


 

He’s in a nightmare, but it’s more than that. His mind is a blank slate as he wets the blade locked in the powerful grip of his metal hand with the blood of a U.S Senator. Of his wife, when she wakes up in the bed beside him after his throat gurgles, drowning in blood.

Then his children.

His voice is a disembodied whisper in the dark. “Mission complete.”

Mission complete. Mission complete.

He comes awake to Raenia shaking him.

“Jay, Jay. _Bucky!_ ”

He jerks up, rolling off the mattress and onto the floor into a defensive crouch, knives drawn from underneath the mattress and the space tucked between the lamp shade.

The whites of Raenia’s eyes seem gruesome in the dark but she’s unharmed and staring at the weapons in his hands with disbelief.

“Where did you even _get_ those?” she demands, only a little awed.

Bucky’s covered in a sheen of sweat and his body is trembling all over.

“Nightmare?” she asks.

“Memory,” he spits, rising to stand and pushing the slick strands of his hair out of his face. Most of it came loose when he was struggling in the tangle of sheets and the elastic hair tie snapped apart. He tucks the knives carefully into the waistband of his pants and tries to breathe carefully. In and out.

“You don’t have to stay here you know,” Raenia says without requesting any further details.

He focuses on regulating his breathing first before working up to a reply. “It’s just for the night. If you don’t like it here you can come and stay at my place instead.”

Raenia frowns at him. “I meant in this room,” she says. “You’d obviously rather be next door. You’re not entirely comfortable like this with me and I’m not entirely comfortable sharing a bed with you either. It’s okay.”

Bucky pushes more hair out of his face and tries to calm his racing heart.

“I don’t think he wants that,” Bucky admits after a pause.

“Only one way to find out.”

He sighs but she's not wrong and there's a much higher chance he'll be able to sleep in Steve's bed. This is a mistake but he steals out silently into the living room anyway. Before he reaches Steve’s door though, it’s swinging open, a dishevelled looking Steve in its wake.

“Memory?” he asks, and his voice is scratchy from misuse but he doesn’t look like he’s just woken up.

He’s been up for a while and Bucky wonders how long he’s been lying there staring at the ceiling. Has he been sleeping at all without Bucky around?

“Yeah,” he says. “You?”

“Nightmare.”

“Can I come in?”

Steve’s mystified by the request but steps aside to let him into the room. Bucky exhales in relief and slips under the upturned covers, stealing the spot Steve imprinted with his body heat.

A second later Steve shuts the door and climbs in next to him. Bucky’s still sweaty but Steve doesn’t care because he moves into him and wraps his arms around his back.

“Why are you wearing a shirt?” he wonders quietly, stilling at the feeling of material under his hands. “Take it off, Buck. You’re burning up.”

It sticks in some places to wet skin but he peels the fabric off and instantly feels better. He hadn’t realised how overheated he was. Bucky even calms down enough to stow the knives under Steve’s mattress. Steve digs through his bedside table and passes Bucky a spare hair tie to fix his hair up off of his face, exposing much needed cold air to the back of his neck.

They settle in together, bodies knowing exactly what position works best and Bucky ends up with his face pressed into Steve’s neck. He huffs a breath against the warmth of skin and tries to feel angry about the way his body instantly loosens, tension slipping away in the embrace.

Steve is more tired than he lets on because he sighs softly and melts into his hands, drifting off almost immediately as if he’d been waiting for Bucky all along.

And Bucky doesn’t care that Steve’s not in love with him, that his heart isn’t at ease as soon as they’re in the same room together.

He’ll take what he can get.

 

  
  


 

Bucky actually sleeps through the natural alarm that is his body clock and wakes to a heavy thumping against the door, knives already in hand as he’s curled around Steve.

From the looks of it, Steve slept through his own internal alarm as well when he stirs at the sound.

They’re tangled as intimately as physically achievable short of actual sex and it puts a promising flush to Steve’s face as they detach, which travels quickly down his neck and to his bare chest.

Buck stops himself from looking at Steve’s uncovered nipples and rolls out of bed, hiding the knives again when he hears who’s knocking. He’s already making up an excuse for what he’s doing in Steve’s room but Sam doesn’t even blink at his presence when he opens the door.

“You guys ready or what?”

“No,” Bucky grumbles, alert and completely underdressed.

Sam is already in a sweatshirt and running shorts and he’s much too high-spirited this morning already.

“Are you dead?” Sam asks. “I thought you’d have to be dead to not get up before the sun.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and glances behind his shoulder at Steve.

“Not dead,” Steve answers, languidly. “Just tired, I guess.”

And then Steve laboriously sits up, sheets pooling around his waist so that it gives the impression he’s naked under them. As if they've spent the night rolling around in the sheets and exhausted themselves that way. Arousal churns in Bucky’s gut as the temperature of his skin warms at the idea.

He might’ve seen Steve naked before, the army didn’t care much for modesty but being allowed to touch is a whole other universe he’s never imagined. Not past that one foolish fumbling when they were in their early twenties. 

“Still want to run?” Sam checks. “My lungs will thank you for it if you say no.”

He’s not getting off that easy. 

“Prepare to suffer,” Bucky answers, grinning as he goes to head out and grab suitable clothes from his old room.

Steve stands up swiftly. “No, wait,” he says. “Don’t wake her up. Just borrow mine.”

He tosses Bucky a pair of shorts and a sweatshirt and it’s a good thing they’re about the same shoe size, at least after the serum was through with him.

Sam goes to wait out in their living room, quietly, so he doesn’t wake Raenia up and Bucky doesn’t know if he should mention it’s very likely she’s already awake by now. So he doesn’t.

He also doesn’t worry about getting dressed in front of Steve either. They’ve done this for so many years that falling into the pattern of it again is easy.

“Where do you usually take Sam running?” Steve wonders, tying up his shoelaces.

“Wherever,” he says. “Usually I just go until he wipes out.”

“I can hear you,” Sam complains.

Steve grins. “Well you’re not gonna have that problem this time,” he says. “Now you’re running against me.”

Bucky stuffs his feet into Steve’s sneakers with a sly grin. “That so?”

“Yeah. Think you can hack it?”

Oh, Steve is playing with something dangerous here. “Why. You think I can’t?”

His smile is satisfied and pliant. Bucky’s never felt more alert. “I guess we’ll see." 

"Hey do you remember Alfred Lewinsky and those blue marbles-”  


“That his parents bought him for his 7th birthday and Thomas Finley tried to steal?” Steve finishes. “Think you can run as fast as he did before I stopped Thomas?”

“Before you tripped Thomas,” Bucky corrects. “And then he started pummelling the hell out of you instead before I pulled him off.”

A pinkish hue forms on Steve’s cheeks before he allows the memory to sweep him away. “Still think you can run as fast as Alfred Lewinsky?”

“Faster.”

“Are you grandpas done yet?” Sam demands loudly. “This is actually so embarrassing to listen to, I’ll have you know.”

Bucky finishes tying his shoes and heads out into the living room. “Prepare to lose that lung, Tweety bird.”

“That’s hilarious,” Sam deadpans, painfully unamused but laughter bursts unpredictably out of Steve so he begs to differ.

His chuckles peter out a moment later but Sam’s betrayed expression says it all.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” he assures him. Then, repeats, as if to himself, “Tweety bird,” and starts snickering all over again. 

Bucky smirks and leads them out towards the elevator, taking the stairs this time.

They take him across Manhattan and Sam ends up sounding like he’s hacking up more than a lung when he finally taps out. Bucky and Steve run each other determinedly into the ground after that but nobody comes out on top.

He’s panting heavily when they both stop, Steve almost sounding like he’s got asthma again they’ve pushed the limits so hard. But not hard enough. He’s not even tired yet.

Bucky takes a deep breath, swallows and wipes away the sweat coating his forehead.

“Wanna go again?”

Steve grins and starts running.

 

  
  


 

The next few days are impossibly hard. Now that he has most of his memories, apart from those few weeks before the doctors wiped him- though there's hope they’ll come back eventually- Steve hasn’t given him any space at all. 

He knows he’s supposed to be angrier than this and even though what happened still hurts, especially knowing Steve lied to him, he can’t push him away. No matter how he became Jay Reiser, the point is that being him for a little while gave him the space he desperately needed to breathe. The crippling hatred he felt for himself isn’t so strong now and blame doesn’t weigh down every single living moment as much as it used to. 

However it happened, being Jay did something. Something good.

He can’t hate Steve for wanting to help. They’ve been apart for more than seventy years; he’s not risking any more time.

Steve seems to think the same because when Bucky heads home after their run, Steve comes back to his apartment in Jackson Heights. They found Sam resting against a park bench and walked him home with only some minor teasing and distinctive grumbling on Sam’s part and he’d promised to meet up later. 

Raenia texts him on the walk back to Queens, sending pictures of some of the machines in Tony’s lab and he has no clue what any of them are supposed to do. The exclamation points and heavy cursing tells him they’re exciting somehow.

At least she’s having a good time.

He is too but it’s much harder to be close to Steve like he used to be before all of this. He’s too aware now, that he’s tasted his lips, pushed his fingers into Steve’s hair and gripped him tight. He can’t forget that he’s watched him on TV, dreamt about him and spoken to him with hunger in his mouth.

Before the war, these thoughts hadn’t been worth entertaining so he’d never allowed them to coalesce into something concrete enough to be considered want but now that he has, trying to extinguish them is impossible. He can’t pull them apart anymore, can’t let them sit tucked away deep where they’ll stay untouched. That’s not going to work like it used to.

And that only makes this more unbearable. Navigating having Steve back and the unsettling rush of his fully formed feelings for him is an explosive combination just waiting to blow up in his face.

But he’s not going to turn Steve away now. He can’t.

“You want first shower?” he asks, unlocking the door and listening to the deadbolt slide across.

Steve’s a solid presence behind him and he smells even better than usual, more prominent now that he’s been sweating. When Steve pauses in the entryway staring at the open space, Bucky realises with a jolt that he’s never been here before. 

“Nah,” he says. “You go first.”

Bucky doesn’t move straight away, watching Steve take it all in. It’s a modest place but it does the trick. He doesn’t need anything fancy like the Avengers Tower.

“Still bigger than our apartment in Brooklyn,” Steve points out, with a private smile that only Bucky can understand.

He laughs, because Steve is right. It’s amazing they lived in that shoebox for so long and how easy and intimate it was, just the two of them. Bucky misses it more times than he can count, how simple it was to be in each other’s space back then. And how much it wasn't.

“You had me under surveillance when you planted me here didn’t you?”

Steve flinches at the question. “Not me. SHIELD. I didn’t know where you were. They wanted to see how you were settling in, what the effects of the wipe were. I made them back off when I found out because I knew you’d sense it and if they pushed hard enough, you’d run and then I’d have no chance of finding you. Not when all you remembered was that you were Jay Reiser.”

“About the name,” he says, voicing a suspicion he’s had ever since he remembered. “You came up with it didn’t you?”

Steve shifts a little, repentant. “Yeah.”

“After Pistol Pete right? From the Brooklyn Dodgers?”

Only Steve would’ve thought to give him that kind of name. Nobody else would’ve taken that kind of care.

“Yeah, Pete Reiser,” Steve agrees. “He was one of your favourites.”

They went to a game once. On Sunday May 25, 1941 at Ebbets Field to watch the Brooklyn Dodgers play. They’d won but all Bucky had been able to focus on were Steve’s hands balled up into fists against his thighs as he’d attentively watched the field. 

He’d wondered what it would be like even then, to hold Steve’s hand for longer than an accidental brush of fingers, to clasp it between his own and see if it fit there like he knew it did.

He hadn’t seen as much of Pistol Pete as Steve assumes he did but it still had been an incredible game.

“I remember.”

He disappears into the bathroom in order to put distance between the vivid experiences. He knew, even then when he didn’t quite understand it yet. 

Bucky knew.

And he’s not so sure if he can make it unknown again, even to protect their friendship.

Between the two of them, Bucky’s always was the most insatiable.

It damned him then, and it’s going to do the same again.

And still, he can’t stop himself.

 

  
  


 

Life changes rapidly now that Steve’s back in it. Not once for the entire weekend are they apart. 

Steve sits close, basking in their reignited contact and he should be avoiding it, might actually be strong enough to do it if he wasn’t already so touch starved. He hasn’t trusted any one enough to let them this close and to feel comfortable about it when they do so he doesn’t tell Steve no when it would probably hurt less.

Their friends come and go from Bucky’s apartment: Natasha, Sam, Clint, even Tony memorably on Saturday evening but Steve only ever gets tense when Raenia shows up. Nobody else can tell save for Bucky and Steve's way too polite for anyone else to even have a inkling of what's happening.

He remembers what Steve thought the other night but unless he outright asks, Bucky’s not in the mood to correct him. It’s relatively been keeping Steve out of his personal space more than anything short of Bucky demanding it and it’s hard to resent that kind of decision when he knows it’ll be good for him in the long run.

They don’t do much. Run, eat, talk, watch movies but it doesn’t matter what they’re doing inasmuch as revelling at the fact that they’re sitting on a couch together some seventy plus years into the future. 

He wouldn’t settle for anything else. 

On Sunday night though, reality comes crashing back in. He has work the next day and Steve’s more than likely to be called away on some secret mission. Steve’s been living at his place for two days, borrowing his clothes, sleeping on his crappy couch and it’s been the greatest thing he could ever ask for.

Sure, his nightmares are more frequent now that they have something specific to latch onto but when he wakes up afterward he’s not being crushed by it. He gets up, checks on Steve in the living room where he’ll either be awake, in the fits of his own nightmare or sleeping so beautifully that he can’t bear to wake him.

He doesn’t know how he’ll survive the Steve shaped space that Jay Reiser could feel in his heart now that he knows who it belongs to.

But Steve promises to meet for coffee after his Monday morning class and refusing the chance to spend more time with him just isn’t an option.

 

  
  


 

Some of that leftover tension resurfaces on Tuesday. 

Steve actually meets him at the Institute and since Bucky wasn’t expecting him, he didn’t think to warn Steve it might be a bad idea. He’s teaching his entirely male class and there’s no doubt all of them have had a wet dream about Captain America at some point in their lives.

Bucky is in the middle of demonstrating a particularly difficult move, made more complicated by the fact that he’s trying to do it without touching anyone when Steve enters the room.

The class is instantly disrupted but he doesn’t turn to look.

Bucky, who’s still in the middle of teaching, assumes it’s Chad or Todd since they’re the only two rude enough to interrupt his sessions. The rest of the Instructors at the Institute are much more respectful and decent. But when nearly everyone in the training room collectively stops what they’re doing to turn and stare, even Emir, he has to admit that something else might be happening.

He almost groans when he finally turns and realises it’s Steve gracing his studio for the first time.

“Sorry,” he says apologetically. “I’m early. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Sure,” Bucky agrees though he’s sour now that Steve’s here and the class is in a state because of it. “You can take a seat or wait outside.”

“Hold up. You’re friends with Black Widow _and_ Captain America?” Hayri demands, and he’s probably the mouthiest one of the group. “Who the hell are you?”

The question actually stumps him since he never expected to be asked such a thing. He should have though. If he'd taken better care he would've planned for this. Steve seems to have a solution ready though.

“He’s my boyfriend,” he announces and Bucky’s knees feel weak. “But I like to keep my privacy and- Jay respects that.”

He doesn’t even have to ask them. The implication is clear. If they don’t keep this private than they’re disrespecting Captain America. Even with what’s been going on in the media lately, there aren’t many people who would willingly do that. He means too much to all of them.

There are a few hushed whispers exchanged amongst the group and Emir seems to flush several deeper shades of purple since he’s only just realised that he openly hit on Captain America’s supposed boyfriend. Bucky tries not to grimace.

“Can you show us this move then?” Haryi wonders. “Jay’s got a no touching policy when he instructs and I’ve got no idea how to do this.”

Damn. Hayri really shouldn’t have asked that but Steve’s already on his feet, rubbing his hands together with anticipation. He’s gonna enjoy this, it’s written all over his face already. Steve’s always been too keen to start a fight.

“Sure.”

Bucky flushes hot then cold but tries to convince himself this is just another exhibition with a faceless body standing in as a prop. Not someone he very much wants to ravage with his mouth.

The technique is essentially how to get out of a situation if an attacker ever locks them into a bear hug from behind. The issue being that in order to display how to do this technique someone needs to actually _wrap their arms around him_.

He’s tried explaining it aloud but nobody seems to be getting with the program short of a physical presentation and he didn’t want to do that. It’s an infinitely worse idea to be doing it with Steve. It's not like he can say that though, especially when he's already turned around and declared Bucky is his boyfriend.

“Alright, Steve,” he says, voice strangely wooden. “Press up against my back and put your arms around me, hands clasped tight in front of my stomach to lock me in.”

Steve makes a soft sound first but before he can figure out what it means, he’s pushing up against Bucky’s spine, all burning heat and careful hands and he can feel the clink of tags through his shirt, the ones with Bucky’s fucking _name_ on them and completely forgets what he was about to say.

Unsteadily, he wonders if Steve enjoys holding him like this.

“Buck,” he whispers, quickly bringing him back into the present.

His skin is hot when he stares back at his students who appear more than interested in this exchange. Quickly, he regains their attention before it tips into the gutter and stays there.

“So first things first, alright. The assailant has grabbed someone like this to a) prevent them from running b) hinder their attempts to attack face on and c) to make it easier to lift them up or drag them away.”

He makes a show of trying to get free without trying the technique but Steve’s hands tighten against his stomach and his breath catches. Bucky mimics trying to use his hands to scratch at Steve or do anything to display how the hold has limited his movements.

“The point here is to counteract this attack so first things first, is for the person to fold themselves forward, thereby making a person heavier and harder to pick up.”

He lets himself hunch forward and it’s worse because now Steve’s crotch is shoved against his ass, making it impossible for him to concentrate. Bucky bites his lip to reorient himself.

“In situations like this, what a person can do with their hands is limited so it’s important to remember your elbows. The elbows are the strongest point on a human body and in this situation they’re your best option.”

He lifts his arms up, tucking them in tight to absorb the impact of the blows. “So a person should use both of their elbows on either side, whilst rotating the torso.”

He mimics the effect but doesn’t actually strike Steve. “The aggressive movement forces the attacker to loosen the hold.” Which Steve does, but doesn’t move back or let go. “And from there a person elbows the attacker’s head enough to spin around, knee them in the groin and push off to separate.”

Bucky quickly goes through these motions, still flushed even when Steve finally lets go and when it’s over and he can step away, he hopes he wasn’t too unprofessional about it. Some of the men watching are a little flushed too and he really regrets not warning Steve off of meeting him here first.

Everyone seems to understand the technique better once it’s actually been shown to them and Bucky walks around the room, correcting the easy to miss mistakes, like having the right posture and low centre of gravity so they don’t injure themselves trying to pull off the move.

Steve goes back to his seat whilst Bucky is making the rounds and he’s across the other side of the room before he realises that Emir has left his partner and is talking to Steve instead. And Bucky realises exactly what he’s talking about just in time to watch Steve’s expression twist and his jawline become more visible since he’s clenching his teeth together so tightly. He knows Emir means well by trying to apologise but right now, he’s only making the situation worse.

Thankfully, Steve only reacts badly enough that Bucky notices, he’s perfectly gracious when he replies and even manages to smile.

Emir is almost glowing by that stage, he’s so enraptured by that small gesture and Bucky has to ignore them. This is where he works, he can’t tell Steve off in front of all of his students just for being himself.

The session finishes ten minutes later and Emir eventually returns to his partner without Bucky needing to intervene. He can feel Steve’s eyes on his back the entire time.

When it’s over and they start walking out, some of them stop to ask for Steve’s autograph which he’s more than happy to give. Of course he is. 

Always giving and giving and giving until there’s nothing left.

Bucky moves about packing up the studio for the next class and prays that Chad and Todd haven’t heard about the surprise guest and come running down to meet him. Chad would probably want him to be the face of the company, take some photos of them shaking hands that he could post on the Internet to increase clientele.

Todd would probably obnoxiously challenge Steve to a weight lifting contest or something.

Bucky doesn’t think either of them would survive an encounter with Steve Rogers. And then his job wouldn’t survive much longer after that. By the time he’s finished, setting everything right again the last of his students have left and it’s just Steve standing in the doorway, watching him.

“C’mon,” he says and encourages Steve out into the hallway before locking the door behind him.

“You’re angry,” Steve notes, and he sounds irate as well.

Buck doesn’t respond right away. “Yeah. If you’d texted beforehand I could’ve warned you not to come since Natasha’s already showed up after this class and drawn enough attention. But I guess since I’m your _boyfriend_ now everything’s fine.”

He doesn't want to sound petty but it comes out like that anyway. The thing is he knows exactly why he’s so upset. He humiliated himself in front of his class today as soon as Steve was wrapped around him and he’s supposed to take this seriously. It's his fucking job. This _is_ serious and Steve just turned around and announced they were dating like it was the simplest idea in the world, as if it wasn’t already what Bucky’s wanted for so long.

Hearing Steve throw the idea around like it was a meaningless excuse, hurt.

“I was trying to help. I didn’t expect to get an apology from one of your students for seducing you.”

Bucky forgoes the elevator in favour of the stairs and Steve just follows him down as if he’d never saw the first option.

“Did you sleep with him?” Steve asks wholly disapproving. “What about you and Raenia?”

Of course, that’s why he cares. Wondering if Bucky is stepping out on his girl, not because of any feelings Steve might have for him being thrown into the mix. It’s already testing his threshold of pain; being constantly reminded at every turn that Steve very emphatically _does not want him_. 

Bucky turns so abruptly on the staircase that Steve nearly topples into his chest. 

“There is no me and Emir just like there’s no me and Raenia. Would you just fucking drop it, Steve?”

This update floors Steve for some unfathomable reason and Bucky doesn’t wait for him to pull his head out of his ass and keeps walking. Steve catches up again when he’s heading down the street towards Hell’s Kitchen to buy lunch.

“You didn’t- while you were Jay?” Steve wonders, genuinely confused enough that Bucky doesn’t actually want to hit him. “But- you’ve never had a problem drawing girls before. Why didn’t you?”

Bucky’s walking fast but Steve keeps pace with him easily. “Gee, I don’t know, Steve. Maybe because I’m a fucking trauma victim and I was dealing with that trauma.”

The tension escalates when Steve reaches out and grips his elbow. “But you weren’t supposed to remember it,” he protests, devastated. “That was the whole point.”

He's so sincere that Bucky tries not to lose it. “I didn’t remember but it was there. I still had panic attacks, still couldn’t stand the idea of anybody touching me, still walked like there was a target on my back. The difference is I had no context for why I felt that way.”

Steve drops his arm like he’s been burned, face contorting with pain at Bucky’s words. For a second he seems ashamed. “I’ve been all over you like a rash these last few days. Why didn’t you say something?”

That’s probably the most frustrating question of all, because he has _no issue_ with Steve touching him whatsoever. He knows his hands almost as well as his own, maybe better and he trusts what Steve will do with them.

It’s implicit and Steve’s the only one who has that right to Bucky’s personal space, because Bucky’s given it to him and Steve has consistently proven he’s deserving of that trust.

But he can’t say that now without revealing too much. Without revealing everything that Steve doesn’t want to hear.

“Because I trust you,” he admits and hopes it’s enough.

Steve’s wrings his hands, seemingly conflicted. “But you’d tell me if you wanted me to stop?”

Bucky’s fingers twitch with the urge to reach out and slide his hand over Steve’s. 

“Yeah,” he says, dragging Steve into Poseidon Bakery. They sell Greek sweet and savoury pasties and right now he could probably eat about fifty of them. “Course I would.”

What he fails to mention, is that it would be rare circumstances for Bucky to actually want him to. Even back at the Institute, when Steve was locked onto him so firmly that his mind went unfocused, all he wanted to do was pull him in closer.

Steve smiles at him, reassured and gladdened by the words and smells that assault their noses once they’re inside. When it's clear that the bakery is so full of people that he almost can’t see the counter, Steve rests his hand at Bucky’s lower back as if not to lose him.

Bucky feels it all the way through his shirt.

 

  
  


 

Raenia sends a text inviting them both to dinner that night on Bucky’s iPhone and Steve’s a lot less guarded with his reaction when he sees her name pop on the screen now. It's good to see him finally loosening up around her.

“Natasha wants to do dinner tonight,” Bucky explains distractedly, reading the message. Steve’s hand is still on his lower back and all he can seem to focus on is that concentration of heat. “Wants us to meet at Gotham West Market.”

“Who’s going?” Steve asks, pulling out his wallet one handed the closer they get to the counter.

“Natasha, Raenia, Clint, Sam, Tony maybe, Banner maybe.” He scans the rest of it. “Oh and Thor. Thor’s back.”

Steve smiles is so wide it’s painful and Bucky knows exactly what he’s thinking. He’s unreasonably happy about going to dinner. Finally having them all in one place together.

“Great. It’s been a while since you last saw him.”

Bucky frowns, finding memories a challenge to pull to the forefront of his mind when Steve isn’t in them. There’s a flash of metal striking in a strong, controlled arch before it assaults Thor’s jaw and he goes down, beaming with a violent joy the entire time.

“I hit him?” he recalls, appalled.

Steve looks unreasonably proud. “You knocked him out,” he explains, grinning. “Thor kept trying to push you to train with him and you didn’t want to. He didn’t understand how high strung you were and didn’t back off, so you hit him. Took him down in one punch.”

“Fuck,” Bucky curses, rubbing his jaw awkwardly.

As if it wasn't hard enough on Steve having one of his teammates hate Bucky, he had to go off and knock another one of them unconscious. With his metal arm no less. It's lucky that unconsciousness was the only thing Thor suffered. 

Steve’s quick to pacify him. “No, Buck, it’s fine. When Thor came to he was delighted. Said it had been a few millennia since someone had taken him down with one hit. Besides, Thor’s not one to hold grudges.”

“If you say so,” he mutters, feelings dubious on the matter. Though Bucky’s doesn’t know anyone who wouldn’t resent getting punched in the face with a metal fist. It's nothing to grin at. 

But whatever Thor thinks of him now, he’ll definitely know the outcome, after tonight.

Bucky’s not so sure he wants to.

 

  
  


 

The group goes to Ivan Ramen Slurp Shop since apparently Natasha’s been craving it all week and Bucky doesn’t know if it’s the combination of people, Tony and Banner included for once, or just the atmosphere but somehow the immediate topic turns sexual.

Thor does not hold a grudge about Bucky hitting him with his metal arm, because he thumps him on the back in greeting when Steve quickly intervenes to prevent him from going in for a god-crushing hug. Bucky hates the thrill of pleasure he feels at knowing Steve is trying to protect his personal space.

The ramen is amazing and Bucky disappears into it when Tony starts openly discussing the time he lost his virginity at the tender age of sixteen to his cute next door neighbour. Raenia glances at him every few seconds with her mouth pursed into a moue of distaste and Bucky nearly laughs into his noodles before Steve pats his shoulder sympathetically, fingers splayed out across his back.

It’s fine, if a little too much information that he needed to know about Tony’s sex life but the food is delicious and Steve’s on his right and they’re eating with a good group of people. Nothing’s going wrong so far.

At least until Tony drags Steve into it. “What about you, Capsicle. Still a virgin at ninety five?”

Bucky nearly drops his spoon into the ramen. 

“God, you’re a dick, Tony,” Steve mutters, cheeks colouring.

“At least I’ve touched a dick,” Tony retorts. “Have you even beat the American meat or was that frowned upon in ye olden days? Didn’t they use to say it’d make you go blind or something?”

Bucky snorts with laughter at the old wives tale. “Didn’t stop me.”

Steve only rolls his eyes at him. “Nothing stopped you, Buck. You were insatiable.” 

Tony’s eyes narrow with understanding. “Oh, I see what’s going on here. It all makes sense _now_. You two weren’t just best friends since childhood huh?” he says, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

Steve’s good humour dissipates and Raenia grimaces at the two of them, eyes sliding furtively towards Bucky in sympathy before she conceals the reaction.

“You’re an asshole, Tony,” Bucky snaps.

But Natasha is glancing between them with a keen interest that does not bode well for any of them. Sam’s pretending he’s not even in the conversation, head bowed over his bowl and Clint’s staring between everyone as if he’s not sure whose lips he should be reading. 

Banner seems like he’s half asleep already.

“There is no shame in the coupling of men,” Thor volunteers, no sense of concern in lowering his voice. “Each occasion that my brother permits me to slide inside, the universes themselves appear to crumble away to our pleasure.”

Bucky cringes when Raenia chokes on her sip of water. “I’m sorry,” she says, sounding strangled. “Did you say your brother? Like you’re actually fucking _your brother_?”

“Aye,” Thor agrees, pleased as he lifts his bowl of ramen with both hands and drinks from it like a broth. “He is an exquisite lover, wild and untameable with his desire.”

He smacks his lips together loudly before setting it back down but Raenia’s staring at everyone and trying to find someone else as troubled as she is by this announcement. Bucky was a little horrified at first but gods have different customs than they do and besides everybody’s mostly used to it now.

“As in Loki. The guy that murdered thousands of people and brought aliens to this planet to destroy it.”

“That’s the one,” Clint agrees helpfully, around slurping noodles and he’s frowning but he’s not as enraged about what Loki did to him anymore.

At first everyone was careful to never put them in the same room together, since Clint's sense of retribution mostly involved constantly trying to kill him. But since they last saw Thor and Loki, Loki took Clint into a room and they either talked for an hour or Clint beat Loki up for an hour. Whatever happened, since then the situation between has somewhat improved. 

Clint is less likely to hit Loki now or pump him full of arrows the next time he sees him.

But Raenia doesn’t know any of this so she’s staring at them as if she’s can’t comprehend what language they’re speaking. Sam’s steady refusal to look up from his bowl and join the conversation is starting to become impressive. 

“He has not killed any innocents since then,” Thor explains. “He was misguided but his desire for such things has sufficiently waned now that he has acquired what he truly wants.”

Raenia rubs at her forehead like she’s getting a headache just listening to this. “And what does he want?”

Steve presses two fingers to his temple as if he’s experiencing the same predicament. “Thor, actually.”

Bucky smiles to himself when Raenia actually turns to Natasha and throws her hands up in question, but she only shrugs. They’ve all adjusted to this change without much issue, the winning point being Loki does not return to earth to raze it to the ground again or even just to hang out. Not without being accompanied by Thor.

“I- I can’t even think of what to say,” she replies. “He’s your brother!”

Thor has long since drained his ramen and seems keen to start on another. He shrugs. “He is adopted, Lady Raenia,” he offers gently as if this is a suitable answer.

It’s not, but Raenia seems to give up on the topic entirely, blinking rapidly and draining her glass of water instead as if she suddenly wishes it was something stronger.

“Besides virginity is a social construct anyway,” Natasha points out, going back to the original topic. “There’s no dick special enough to fundamentally change me as a person.”

“Exactly,” Clint agrees, nodding his head and lifting up his bowl to drink from it like Thor did.

Tony puts an arm around Banner and reels him in. “I wouldn’t be so sure,” he teases, raising an eyebrow significantly.

Bucky realises what he’s getting at straight away. Some of Raenia’s online friends have made a few comments on the size of the Hulk’s package. Steve’s shifts awkwardly beside him, but his real issue is that they’re discussing this with ladies present. Natasha took some time to educate him on that respect but still, old habits die-hard.

“Wow, you have no filter do you?” Raenia remarks.

“None at all,” Tony replies, smirking.

“You should work on that,” Steve replies, jaw clenching.

“No, no, no. We’re getting off topic. My original query is this: Are you a virgin Steven Rogers?”

Bucky frowns at Tony, curious as to why he’s suddenly so interested.

“That’s none of your business,” he replies stiffly.

“Why do you even want to know, man?” Sam mutters, eyebrow raised without even looking up, proving that he is in fact listening to the conversation.

“Because, then I can set him up with someone,” Tony explains and Bucky feels his stomach twist. “Man or woman.”

“I already tried that and it didn’t work,” Natasha volunteers. “If Steve wants to date someone then he’ll date them.”

“Steve is also sitting right here,” Steve mutters, scrunching up the napkin in front of him. “You don’t really want to know because of that, you just want to make fun of me for something that doesn’t even matter.”

“Yeah,” Raenia agrees pointing her spoon at Tony. “There are a lot of people who never want to have sex, or rarely experience sexual attraction. Don’t be so narrow-minded.”

“Oh c’mon. It’s written all over his face. Pure as the driven snow-“

“Tony,” Bucky warns, fists clenching.

“Never had a dirty thought in his life, innocent little Stevie.”

Fuck. Tony’s put his foot in it now. 

Steve’s chair scrapes loudly when he brusquely pushes it back, dropping the napkin into his empty bowl. The sudden apoplexy Tony’s aroused in Steve is violently breathtaking and the ferocious power beneath his skin is sharper than ever before. Bucky watches him, open mouthed at the sight. Steve still pushes in his chair though, because he’s ridiculous and by then Bucky’s recovered and already moving to get up after him before he starts talking.

“For the record,” Steve spits out, expression twisted with righteous anger. “I’ve had sex. Happy, Tony?”

The declaration stumps Bucky so completely that he drops back down into the seat, trying to conceal the shock on his face. 

Steve’s had sex. 

His stomach rolls and frantically he tries to remember who might’ve gotten close enough to even touch him like that. Jealously stirs through his heart as he starts to imagine. 

Peggy would’ve been his best guess but Steve would have told him if that had happened. Wouldn’t he? Maybe not, he’d always been too much of a gentleman to talk about women like that. Bucky had no such issue relaying to Steve all of the things he did to dames just so that he’d get to watch his skin go pink and eyes dark, soft lips falling apart. 

Or maybe this happened after- when Bucky was supposedly dead and forever gone. 

The thought of someone else seeing Steve like that, listening to him gasp and arch into reverent and pleasured touches makes him feel sick. And that only serves to makes things worse because he's got no right to feel that way. He doesn't own Steve, nor can he be possessive about who he chooses to be intimate with. The emotions stirring through him feel ugly and spiteful and Bucky finds he can't look Steve in the eye anymore. 

Not when he knows he'd never act the same way about this if the situation was reversed. 

Steve glances surreptitiously in Bucky's direction before his expression hardens and he steps back to stalk out of the restaurant.

The silence is thoroughly unendurable but Bucky's up and out of his chair by the time Steve disappears through the door. He leans over the table toward Tony, who seems just as surprised by Steve’s answer and what just transpired.

“You ever talk to him like that again and we’re gonna have a problem,” he growls, metal arm whirring as he braces it against the table.

The wood groans under the weight and he draws back sharply before any further damage can be done.

“Sorry, Raenia,” he mutters as he storms past.

But she only reaches out and pats his arm supportively. “Make sure he’s alright.”

He nods and heads out into the night.

Steve’s pacing up and down in front of the building as if he’s not sure whether or not he should go back in. Or he’s waiting for Bucky. The self-interested part of him insists it’s the latter.

“You good?”

Steve’s furious expression becomes more earthy when he sees him, more relaxed. “Yeah, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to let him rile me up.”

“No need to be sorry. Tony was being a dick about it.”

That’s not a good enough reason for Steve unfortunately. “Yeah, but I still ruined the night. This was supposed to be fun.”

“It was fun,” he promises. “Thor described defiling his brother in uncomfortable detail and Raenia is never going to look at him the same ever again.”

“He can’t help it,” Steve says. “He’s loved Loki all his life and it took him a while to realise what that sort of love meant. He’s lucky, that Loki felt the same way.”

For an awful, heart stopping moment Bucky thinks Steve isn’t just talking about Thor but then his common sense catches up.

“Right.”

They stand there in silence for a few minutes and Bucky stuffs his hands into his pockets to avoid the chill of the air. “Wanna go grab a coffee?”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, gratefully and they start walking.

“You know Tony was still looking for me,” Bucky admits. “When I was Jay.”

Steve’s cooling anger reignites itself but Bucky didn’t want this sitting between them anymore. “To kill you?”

“I’m not sure,” he says. “But he was still searching for me when you weren’t.”

He ignores the way Steve cringes at his words but it’s not an accusation. It’s not anything really. “We ran into each other accidentally in a café and he said if he ever saw me again he’d kill me.”

He's not the first to make those kinds of threats but Steve still curses anyway and turns around, jaw tight and clenched in fury with the resolve to confront Tony about it right now. Bucky snags the material of his coat to stop him but the response still warms him up a little.

“Hey, we’re good. We talked back at the Tower. I don’t blame him for how he acted.”

Steve stops but he’s not happy about it, mouth turned down and eyes bright. “Well maybe I do.”

“I thought it was meant to be me watching your back,” Bucky teases, mostly to distil some of the tension rippling across Steve’s shoulders. 

“Not since the serum,” Steve says, all sweet and honest because he doesn't know how to be anything else. “We’ve watched each other’s backs.”

“I killed his family, Steve.”

“Yeah, but you weren’t in control. It’s not your fault.”

Bucky finally releases him and steps back, stuffing his hands deep into his pockets. “But I still did it.”

Steve doesn’t have a reply for that but when Bucky keeps walking he follows instead of doubling back to yell at Tony. They’re a street away from the restaurant when Bucky is brave enough to bring it up.

“I didn’t know you had sex,” he offers, quietly. “You didn’t tell me. Was that- uh recently?”

Steve’s skin is rapidly turning pink again. “Not really. It was a long time ago.”

So it was Peggy after all. He can’t resent that, even if he wants to. “Peggy.”

“No,” Steve says, surprisingly. “We never- it was just a stupid thing. He-”

“He?” Bucky chokes and he’s bunching his hands so tightly in his pockets that they feel like they’re gonna tear fabric. “Jesus, Steve. Who was he?”

It’s not meant to sound like that, like Bucky deserves to know as if Steve’s betrayed him by sleeping with someone else. But he can hear it in his own voice, the hurt, the envy and he hates himself for being so unfair. How many girls did he parade around Steve when all he ever wanted was to keep sharing that little bed between them for the rest of his life?

A pretty flush occupies Steve’s face. “You don’t know him. It was reckless. I was drunk.”

He’s lying. Bucky knows Steve well enough to sense the careful construction of it. He thinks furiously about any men lingering around Steve before the war but he can’t. There was no one else. No one else except-

He sucks air into his mouth with a sharp hiss as the bottom of his stomach drops out. Steve’s talking about _Bucky_ , about what they did when Bucky was daring enough to make a move and only by exaggerating how drunk he was.

They hadn’t even gotten naked. Doing that would’ve shattered the illusion that Bucky thought Steve was a girl when he knew he wasn’t. They’d rutted against each other, fully clothed and sensitive with it until they’d come. They’d never spoken about it.

Bucky hadn’t even _kissed_ him. Though he’d wanted to. He’d wanted to so badly that it nearly destroyed him.

Shame tears him apart for a second. He’d taken Steve’s virginity and hadn’t even treated him well enough to make it special. 

That moment had felt so large and momentous to him and he hadn’t even stopped to think what it would’ve felt like for Steve. Touching someone for the first time and being afraid if he went too far that Bucky would stop. Fumbling in the dark without even watching each other’s faces when they finally shook through an orgasm together.

Steve didn’t even get an ‘I love you’ whispered like a secret in the space of their shitty apartment. Bucky loved him then like he loves him now but he still hadn’t said it. He’d been too afraid to put it into words.

God, Steve always deserved someone so much better than him.

“Was- was there anybody else after that?” he asks, once he’s gotten control of himself.

“No,” Steve says, releasing a wistful sound. “It just didn’t seem right.”

The soft admittance only makes him feel worse. Bucky ruined him for anyone else, that’s how bad the experience had been. He’d probably made Steve feel worthless afterwards, just another warm body that he’d gotten off on. Not even worth remembering.

He aches all over suddenly; hurt with the realisation that one of his most cherished memories is tainted by his own thoughtless cruelty.

“I slept with someone the first week I was Jay,” he admits, eyes burning. “I threw up as soon as she left.”

Steve lets out a painful, wounded sound. “Buck, I’m so sorry.”

“I’m sorry too,” he says, voice scratchy with pain and referring to something else entirely.

There are so many other things that he should be sorry for.

Steve doesn’t seem to notice.

 

  
  


 

Raenia calls him once Steve’s fallen asleep on his couch. He hurries into the hallway, shutting the door behind him.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” she responds. “How’s Steve?”

“He’s okay. Mostly upset for thinking he ruined the night for everyone.”

“He didn’t,” Raenia promises. “Tony did, but he felt bad after when everybody called him out for it. Even Thor said his behaviour was ‘unfitting of a warrior’.”

Sounds like Thor. Bucky can’t focus on that right now though. “It was me,” he says. “I took Steve’s virginity.”

There’s a heavy thudding sound that sounds like wood and Raenia's curse of pain tells him that she ran into it. “What the hell Bucky? You’re only telling me this now?”

“I didn’t realise he was talking about me,” he says dejectedly. “We- once before the war started and the world turned to shit. We never talked about it.”

He can almost feel Raenia rolling her eyes. “You never talked about the fact that you fucked each other? God, that’s awful.”

“We didn’t actually- uh…”

“What? You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

Bucky grimaces. “It was reckless. Back then it wasn’t- if you did it you were quiet about it, you know? I didn’t even.” He sighs. “I pretended that I was too bent to notice it was Steve. We didn’t even take off our clothes and kept it hushed because the walls were so thin. Some special first time huh?”

“Oh, Bucky,” she says, and her voice is sad.

Bucky can’t take her pity right now. Not when he doesn’t deserve it.

“I didn’t even think about it, being his first. I was so desperate to touch him, I’d have taken anything, _anything_ I could get. Pretending was enough for me, I didn’t even think about if it was enough for Steve.”

Raenia’s silent for a minute, thinking of how best to respond. “Did you talk about it tonight?”

“No,” he says because they never talk about a lot of things that they should. Communicating feelings has always been challenging for them, especially in Bucky’s case.

“Then you can’t say for sure what Steve thinks about it,” she points out. “Maybe it was enough for Steve too.”

“But he was half-screwed as well. I don’t even know for sure if he wanted it.”

Raenia’s sharp inhale is critical and noticeably disturbed by this information. Bucky curls in on himself gloomily and feels like an utter heel.

“To me it sounds like the both of you we’re pretty unclear in communicating what was happening but do you honestly think you took advantage of Steve? Or is it that the both of you just took advantage of an inexplicable situation? Like, think about it for a second, when have you ever been able to make Steve do something he didn’t want to do?”

“Never,” he says and that much is true at least. 

Nobody ever could. And that’s why Steve always got into fights before he became big enough to settle them himself without Bucky stepping in.

“Why haven’t you asked Steve about this? It’s clearly matters to you.”

Bucky slides down the wall, sitting down and resting his hands on his knees as he sighs. One of his neighbours walks past, Greyson, who always seems to be borrowing his duct tape to fix the apartment door that he keeps kicking in whenever he loses the key. And apparently, Greyson loses his key a lot. But he doesn’t even look at him when he passes by. 

It’s not unusual to take calls in the hallway. It’s where the reception is the least spotty.

“Because we never talked about it and Steve doesn’t even know that I remember it happened-”

“Hold on,” Raenia says abruptly cutting him off. There’s rustling for a second as she does something with her phone, voice becoming faint.

“Barnes,” comes a different voice and it’s Natasha.

He tenses up, figuring out that Natasha’s probably been listening to this entire conversation. 

“What?”

“Guess who’s in love with Steve?” she asks.

Fear spikes in his chest. Who else? Was there someone that Steve didn’t tell him about? No, Steve said there hasn’t been anyone. Why hasn’t he heard about this sooner?

“Who?” he demands, trying to be nonchalant, but the frantic edge is damningly clear.

Natasha makes an irritated sound. “You dipshit,” she responds snarkily. “So how about you _do_ something about it?”

Then she hangs up, before he can finish his conversation with Raenia and he regrets ever approaching her outside of the Institute. She’s almost as much of a trouble maker as Steve is. Some friend.

Talking with Raenia did help though and the situation can’t be so terrible if she still wants to be his friend after what he told her.

Steve opens the door a second later, peering out into the hallway, eyes sleepy and searching for him. His expression is endearingly puzzled when he spots Bucky on the floor. He waves his cell phone in greeting and climbs wearily to his feet.

He doesn’t say anything about it.

Bucky isn’t going to be like everybody else, asking things of Steve, of Captain America that he can’t give.

He won’t do it.

 

  
  


Steve leaves for an assignment together with Natasha and they’re only gone two days but it’s strange not having him available after they’ve been spending so much time together. Bucky’s not completely without company though.

He spends a lot of those two days with Raenia at the Tower and with the rest of the Avengers. It’s a good feeling knowing that his friendship circle doesn’t only extend to Steve anymore. It’s hard to have friends from the past when all but one have already died of old age.

But that’s not true anymore.

Bucky’s not alone. He hasn’t been for a while.

When Steve returns to Bucky’s apartment on the second night there’s a shadowed look to his eyes that he knows only too well. He tugs Steve into his arms before he can remember the promises he made to himself about limiting the contact between them.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Steve is stiff in his arms, jaw tense and Bucky knows he’s playing the blame game right now. This spiral of guilt is painfully familiar. Once he's pulled himself together, Steve moves away to sit on the couch without another word and Bucky goes to boil the kettle.

He still doesn’t speak until Bucky sets down a mug full of tea in front of him, tucking his left foot under his thigh as he takes the spot next to Steve. Bucky’s patient though, enough to wait him out and blows heat off the rim of his own mug in the interim. Waiting for it to cool down.

“I lost two agents,” Steve says finally, not looking at him. “Didn’t account for the correct number of hostiles going in. It was my fault.” 

“Tell me what happened,” he requests calmly, eyes narrowed.

Steve does. He lays out the entire mission for Bucky, discounting specific details like its whereabouts and the main objective. Bucky listens attentively the entire time, watching closely as Steve’s shoulders begin to loosen and the tension starts to slip out of him. Bucky remains there quietly throughout, drinking his tea and not interrupting.

The guilt isn’t helping Steve look objectively here. From what he’s saying it’s clear that the two agents deviated from the initial plan, forgoing safety protocols to enable the success of the mission and it backfired and resulted in their deaths.

“It’s not your fault,” Bucky says, when Steve finally falls silent. “They didn’t follow protocol and they put your entire team at risk as well as themselves. You can’t control the mistakes that others are willing to make by going against your orders. Shit goes wrong Steve. That’s life. That’s human error. You can’t kick yourself over what might have happened if they’d listened to you.”

Steve sighs. “I’m just- tired.”

He knows that he’s not talking in a physical sense. They rarely get tired at all, it takes a lot to drain their energy reserves. Bucky hesitates before responding because this is a difficult subject for Steve on a good day and he doesn’t want to seem like he’s pushing anything. It still needs to be said though.

“You know Captain America isn’t all you’ve got to offer the world.”

The shift in Steve’s expression isn’t exactly angry but Bucky regrets adding to the inner turbulence just the same.

“They’re expecting me-“

“No. They’re not,” he responds. “They’re expecting a man in a suit. Captain America is an idea, not a person and it can exist without you. You’re an expert tactician and field commander and you can do so much more than carrying around a shield.”

The unflinching determination in his eyes means that he’s not listening anymore. Bucky knows he can’t make Steve do anything but maybe he might realise that there are other options out there for him. It's not good to watch him twists himself up in knots over this. Over any of this. 

“This is what I was made for,” he insists and Bucky wishes he could knock some sense into him.

Instead he drains his mug and sets it down on the coffee table, harder than intended. “You were made by Sarah and Joseph Rogers,” he counters, voice harder than he means it to be. “And they’d want you to be happy. Are you happy, Steve?”

The fact that he can’t even give an answer to that question tells Bucky to back off and he does.

“Just- think about it,” he says with an even tone as he pulls the blanket off the armchair which he reserves for Steve’s sleepovers on the couch and tosses it to him. “I’m not stuck as the Winter Soldier any more than you are as Captain America.”

He retrieves his mug and leaves it at that, dropping it in the sink on his way to the bedroom. Steve doesn’t reply but he does sit there drinking his tea when Bucky goes to bed.

He turns out the lights and about ten minutes later the lights in the living room switch off as well.

He hopes he’s given Steve something to think about even if he never plans to leave SHIELD or Captain America behind.

Bucky said something at least.

 

  
  


 

Steve’s phone rings whilst they’re in the middle of their run the next morning. They haven’t gone very far yet so Sam’s still with them and housing an expression that broadcasts how deeply he regrets the decision already.

When Steve answers the call without sounding any different as if he’s taking a stroll and not an intensive run, Sam just groans at the unfairness of it all and with a goading glance at Bucky, ducks off the path and into the trees to ditch him.

Bucky doesn’t even hesitate at the mutiny and they leave Steve in their dust. By the time he manages to catch up again the both of them are laughing at him.

The unnamed confusion on his face speaks of a different problem altogether. “Buck,” he calls out. “Did you give my number to somebody named Hiroto?”

“Hiroto Morita,” he shoots back, meaningfully.

Steve stops jogging and Bucky doubles back to listen to the conversation, interest piqued. He’d expected the call sooner but maybe Jacob took him less seriously than assumed and didn’t pass on the message. By then Steve is already agreeing to meet up with Hiroto for dinner whilst simultaneously trying to communicate a time to Bucky for when he might be free. 

The gesture is a little unexpected; he hadn’t assumed he’d be invited. The meeting is scheduled for next Thursday night and Steve’s smiling and shaking his head when he finally hangs up.

“Hiroto Morita,” he says, bemused. “How did you even-?”

“I met his boyfriend, Jacob,” he explains.

Steve is still dumbfounded. “Where?”

“At the National Archives. He works there.”

“Morita’s grandson,” he repeats, shaking his head. “I can’t believe it.”

“Hey,” Sam calls out from twenty metres away. “We running or what?”

Steve raises an expectant eyebrow.

That's a challenge he can't ignore even on a bad day. Bucky grins and starts sprinting, delighting in Sam’s sudden dismay when he shoots past him at an incredible speed, leaving no chance to catch up.

Steve starts after him a second later.

Sam never stood a chance.

 

  
  


 

Steve texts to invite him to dinner that night and the warmth of the invitation carries him throughout the entire day. He heads home after his class with Sam at Fluent City finishes at two. He invites Sam to dinner but he’s already got plans visiting family in Harlem so he asks for a raincheck.

They’ve only got one week left before the course finishes and whilst Sam’s Russian is getting very good he still hasn’t made a move on Natasha. Bucky’s not so sure anymore that he ever will. 

Richard has improved so much that even the Ivy League jerk sitting next to him has nothing disparaging to say about it. Bucky's nearly as excited as Richard is for him to finally surprise his wife with everything that he's learned.

They stop for a late lunch after where Bucky has double servings of everything and by the time he walks Sam back to his apartment in Lower Manhattan, the sun is setting.

There’s enough time for a shower when he gets home after taking the subway back to Jackson Heights and heading up to his floor via the stairwell. Once he’s inside his apartment, he heads into the bedroom toward the ensuite, shrugging out of clothes and stepping under the shower head. Depending on the time of day, the hot water is nearly always in short supply but today it lasts longer than it usually does. 

Small miracles.

He doesn’t take long though because Steve is meant to be there in about twenty minutes and he still needs to get dressed. The gash across his forearm stands out more than usual when he’s naked like this, the colour of metal striking against the false skin and he tries his best to ignore the sight of it.

Bucky’s just stepped out of the shower, towel tied around his waist and another rubbing through his wet hair when there’s a knock at the door. He glances at the clock on his bedside table but he’s still got ten minutes left.

Steve must be early.

There’s no time to get changed. Bucky walks out and reaches the front door, unlocking it quickly and swinging it wide.

Steve’s greeting smile freezes on his face once he takes in the sight of Bucky’s bare chest. 

“Sorry,” he says hurriedly, no idea why he’s apologising, but steps aside to let Steve in. “I just gotta get dressed.”

The absent expression doesn't go away and Steve’s too distracted to answer, lingering in the doorway, unmoving. Bucky frowns and feels like somehow Steve’s staring at his arm, at the way nothing mechanical can be seen besides the slash of exposed metal there. 

He knows that he looks how the old Bucky used to look, when time had been kinder. For a lot of reasons he's not entirely sure that he likes it, hiding his prosthetic under a false skin but of everything about him, the mechanical arm is the Winter Soldier’s most famous identifier. This is as much for his safety and for everyone else he’s associated with.

He drops the towel he’s still scrubbing through his hair and holds it loosely against his side. “Steve?”

Steve finally seems to come to life, stepping into the apartment and shutting the door behind him, exposed neck flushed red before he turns around again. He hesitates briefly before his fingers reach out to slip through the wet strands of Bucky’s hair.

The touch is so unexpected that he stops breathing for a second.

“It’s gotten so long,” Steve whispers, gently curling his fingers through it.

It’s an effort to resist leaning into his touch. “Yeah, I tried to get it cut at a Barber shop and completely lost it when I saw the chair.” Steve flinches violently and he definitely understands the reference. “Barely sat in it for a full minute before I was outta there like a fire had been lit under my ass.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, looking pained. “I could cut it for you, if you want?”

“Nah, it’s kinda grown on me,” he admits. “Plus I’m liking the scruffy look.”

“Right,” Steve teases and his fingertips are swiping through Bucky’s stubble next, thumb tracing his jaw. The touch leaves him with a sudden difficulty swallowing and Bucky feels like he’s forgotten how to work his entire body.

“I should,” he starts, pulling away before he loses control and starts touching Steve right back. “Get dressed.”

Steve’s hand hovers uncertainly for a second before he lowers it back to his side. “Yeah, I’ll just-“ but he doesn’t finish the sentence.

“There’s tea and coffee in the cupboard above the sink,” he offers, retreating back into the bedroom and feeling overly aware of the movement of his own body. “If you want some.”

The sound of Steve’s light footsteps pad into the kitchen. “Sure,” he agrees easily, voice travelling.

Bucky closes the bedroom door behind him and reaches the chest of drawers to pull out something to wear. He doesn’t get too fancy because Steve will notice and definitely comment, so he grabs a fresh pair of jeans, a long sleeved shirt and a thick coat since the weather’s getting cold in preparation for winter.

He slips into a pair of briefs first, acutely aware of the way the fabric confines his cock when he’s already more or less half excited from Steve’s touch earlier. It takes a few deep breaths to wilfully calm his body down before he can squeeze into the jeans. Ceaselessly wanting seems to have made his body extra sensitive to the impression of Steve’s skin against his own. 

If this keeps up, he’s going to start getting uncomfortably hard in a lot of embarrassingly public places.

He pulls apart a piece of wood he cut out of the dresser in the first week to hide things and dips his fingers into the small alcove of space. He withdraws the item stowed within it and bites his lip, rethinking the decision he made earlier.

Once he re-emerges, Steve’s halfway through drinking a mug of tea but sets it down, abandoning it in the sink as he walks around the kitchen island to stand opposite him.

“Here,” Bucky says and hands Steve the spare key to his apartment. “In case you want to come here and I’m not around.”

Steve stares at the key with a soft expression and Bucky knows that he’s aware of the importance of the gesture.

“Thanks, Buck,” he says, squeezing the key tight within his palm before pocketing it.

If there’s anybody on the planet that he’d allow into his personal space by giving them a key, it would be Steve.

The smile Steve levels at him, comfortable and sure puts him at ease as they head out into the hallway together. Bucky produces his own keys to lock the door behind them. 

Steve’s a little quiet when they walk to the restaurant he wanted to eat at in Manhattan. Bucky has never been to Rolf’s before but apparently the German restaurant is a popular visual delight achieved only by the horde of festive decorations strewn across every inch of the ceiling. 

Anything with that much tinsel and colour is bound to be interesting.

While they walk he tries not to get swept up in the fantasy of it. That maybe nobody else is joining them tonight. That it’s just them alone for a few hours and that this is a date. That maybe he’ll take Steve home after, put him on his back and give him the real kind of lovemaking experience he deserves.

But it's just a desperate fantasy. Reality is vastly different. 

“Where is everyone, anyway?” Bucky wonders when they’re standing out the front of Rolf’s about to head in. “Are they inside? Who’s actually here tonight?”

“About that,” Steve starts, faltering again but Bucky sees the flash of red hair already.

“Oh there’s Natasha,” he says, nudging Steve further into the room.

Steve tenses all over underneath his fingers so Bucky quickly withdraws them, unsure, and certain that he did something wrong. The reaction is unusual for Steve, since he’s usually so tactile with Bucky and it sets him on edge.

Natasha is with Clint and Thor but Raenia is strangely absent. He’s not surprised Tony isn’t around this time, though he’s certain he would’ve already called Steve and apologised by now. He’s probably just keeping some distance until things cool off between them again. Probably because he’s still hopeful that Steve will move back into the Tower.

He should probably give up on that dream. It’s not going to happen.

“Hey,” he greets from across the room, pushing hair out of his eyes to wave at them.

He glances at Steve and barely detects a flash of the unhappy curve of Steve’s mouth before he’s stalking towards the table, Bucky trailing after him with a frown.

“Natasha,” he says, visibly upset and Bucky knows there’s something else going on here that he’s not privy to.

He doesn't like to see Steve agitated like this and it's even worse when the source of it is clearly between his own friends. Natasha only tilts her head back lazily to look up at Steve. “Hey there. Pull up a seat. Unless you have other plans tonight other than hanging out with friends?”

The goading in her words is clear but Bucky has no idea of the context. Steve’s brows furrow but after a moment of silent communication between them, he backs off with a sigh and Natasha somehow seems more enraged by that than anything else. Her hand curls severely on the table top and whatever’s going on is clearly escalating to dangerous proportions.

Bucky refuses to get dragged into this and takes the seat next to Clint instead. “Where’s Raenia?”

Steve sits down opposite Bucky, wrestling with his emotions about whatever argument he and Nat are having right now. From the looks of it, it’s not good. He hasn’t seen Steve this upset since he found out basic human rights still aren’t available to every person in the world. That day had not gone smoothly. 

Bucky raises an eyebrow in inquiry and attempts to gauge the root of the problem but Steve shutters his expression, safeguarding it from him with a weak smile.

That hurts the most.

“Tinkering in Tony’s lab, where else,” Natasha says lightly but she’s not being truthful.

Bucky pulls out his cell phone and subtly texts Raenia underneath the table.

**Hey, why aren’t you here? Everything okay?**

His phone buzzes instantly with her reply.

**I don’t approve of what Nat’s doing so I’m staying out of it.**

Bucky frowns, puzzled now. How could Raenia have been dragged into this? What kind of argument could Natasha and Steve have gotten into when Bucky’s been present for most of the time they've been together lately? 

**What the hell is Natasha doing?**

Raenia doesn’t reply and that is equally frustrating. The waitress reaches their table and Bucky quickly pockets his phone when Natasha rapidly orders a pitcher of German beer for the whole table.

Steve’s the closest to the woman but doesn’t appear to grasp that her eyes linger on him the longest out of the entire group despite only just handing out the menus. Bucky ignores it and focuses on his stomach instead and how he’s going to fill it soon.

The waitress leaves them to decide and kindly informs them their drinks will be out shortly. Steve’s staring at his lap and the prolonged reaction is starting to leech into the wonder and whimsy of the place, perturbing Bucky almost as much as it is Steve. He almost switches seats, so that he can sit in the empty one next to Steve and touch him but manages to stop himself.

Natasha would love that.

There’s too much space made between them across the distance of the table. That won't stop him.

Bucky pulls out his phone and furiously starts texting.

 **What’s with the face?** He sends Steve a second later.

Steve startles when his cell phone buzzes against his leg and cautiously draws it out of his jeans, frowning. His face softens when he sees who it is, and the secretive smile he shoots Bucky before he opens it is unfairly soothing.

After he’s read the message, Steve starts typing out a reply though it takes him longer, not as well adjusted to technology as Bucky’s been trained to be. He doesn’t mind waiting though.

 **Don’t worry about it, Buck,** he replies. **I’m fine.**

What a liar. Bucky rolls his eyes.

**Bullshit.**

Steve’s phone buzzes again and his grin is entirely insolent. Anybody that doesn’t think Steve Rogers is a little shit is kidding themselves.

The tension at the table settles a little when the beer shows up, though Thor puts away a staggering amount and they immediately need refills. Everybody’s starving so they order food nearly as quickly.

The waitress exasperatingly lingers near Steve nearly every time she stands at their table and it’s an aggravating distraction that’s messing with his good mood. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do when Steve finally finds somebody he wants to share everything with.

It’ll probably kill him. But he’d still try to be decent about it. Losing Steve to someone or losing him altogether doesn’t seem like much of a choice.

“Why do you look like someone kicked my puppy?” Clint wonders, staring at his face.

Bucky startles, eyes flicking towards Steve who’s watching him as well. He flushes at the attention and quickly tries to get it together. This is supposed to be fun.

“Drink your beer,” he gripes, lightly shoving at Clint’s bicep.

Clint shoves back with an unsatisfied laugh before pointing at his empty glass and then at the culprit. Thor’s grinning triumphantly even after Natasha flicks bread at his face with deadly accuracy.

Steve’s meal comes out first, even though he ordered a roast boneless loin of pork with red cabbage and potato cake and he’s utterly oblivious of the reasons for such impossibly fast service. Naturally. Bucky resists the urge to sigh when Steve leaves it untouched, waiting for everyone else’s food to reach the table before he eats. 

He’s polite to the point of painful sometimes.

“Eat up, Steve,” he teases. “You’re wasting away already.”

Just for that, Steve heaps a huge mouthful onto his fork, leans over the table and shoves it towards Bucky’s face. He opens up instantly, accepting the huge morsel into his mouth with a grin because it’s free food and he’s hungry. What he doesn’t expect is for Steve’s eyes to sharpen and for him to yank the fork back with a strangled laugh before putting it into his own mouth, even when there’s nothing much left on it.

Bucky manages not to choke on the huge piece of pork and cabbage he’s currently chewing but only because he breaks eye contact with Steve immediately.

Natasha knowingly clears her throat and Steve startles apologetically before his cheeks flush bright red. He busies about digging into his food and doesn’t look up again until he’s madly chewing. Bucky savours the pork and all of its rich flavours and hopes the dish he ordered tastes just as good. The rest of their meals come out after that and with them another pitcher of beer so Natasha has no chance to add further comments over the scramble for food.

Clint’s already eating before the plate has touched the table he’s so hungry and Thor seems infinitely more interested in a liquid dinner while Natasha continues to narrow her eyes at all of them as if this is not going according to her plans.

Bucky ordered the golden goose, mashed potatoes, red cabbage and cranberry and takes a bite of the goose first and it’s pretty good too but when he notices Steve’s still hesitating over his own meal, uncertain of whether he enjoys the taste he switches the plates. Steve submits a grateful look before cautiously trying Bucky’s meal, even though he already knows Steve is gonna enjoy it.

He does, with a soft sound of pleasure and Bucky’s digging into the pork with a smug grin on his face when Natasha finally strikes.

“Awfully domestic aren’t you two?” she observes dryly.

The food turns to dust in his mouth and Steve actually starts choking, coughing violently to clear his airway. Bucky pushes a glass of water at him and glares at Natasha, though she insists on playing innocent.

“Leave it,” he cautions and focuses his attention on the plate in front of him.

He can almost feel Steve trying to keep silent.

When Natasha told him to do something about what he feels for Steve, he hadn’t expected she’d do something herself if he didn’t. The unspoken threat hangs heavily across the table. She needs to stop pushing this or it’s not going to end well.

“What?” Natasha asks. “I’m just saying you make a good team. Hey Steve. You’re sure this isn’t-“

“Natasha-“ he hisses, jerking his hand violently to cut her off.

Bucky drops his fork with a grunt, livid at the raw panic on Steve’s face. “Alright, you wanna talk?” he snaps at her. “Come on. Let’s talk outside right now.”

Natasha smiles thinly and pushes her chair back, coiled to spring.

“Buck, no,” Steve begs and his skin has gone pale, eyes widening with distress. “Please.” 

His temper simmers under the surface, threatening to boil over but he backs off because he's trying to play nice and not ruin the evening for everybody. Natasha’s smile sharpens into something he could cut himself on before she finishes her glass of beer, food untouched and sets the drained glass back onto the table.

“You’re a fool, Steve,” she says quietly, rage burning in her throat before she tosses a couple of bills onto the table and stalks out.

Bucky stares between the empty space she just left and Steve’s hard, unforgiving expression.

“What the fuck just happened?” he demands.

“These are ill tidings indeed,” Thor ruminates, troubled. “Shall I accompany the Lady Natasha back to the Tower?”

“No, don’t,” Clint says, still eating and relatively unconcerned. “You’ll only piss her off.”

Bucky jabs his hand at the empty seat accusingly. “And she’s not already?”

‘Buck,” Steve starts, but he’s not hearing a word of it.

“What aren’t you telling us? What aren’t you telling _me_?”

The question suitably cows Steve who runs a hand through his hair, a nervous habit, visibly chagrined. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Screw that,” he protests. “I thought you’d promised to stop lying to me.”

Steve reels back as if Bucky physically struck him, lips parting with shock, as he’s rendered speechless.

“Aww, c’mon,” Clint mutters. “I hate it when Mom and Dad fight.”

“What?” Bucky sputters incredulously, anger forgotten as he turns to gape at Clint.

Thor looks restless at all of the arguing as if he’d like nothing better than to fix it with his fists but Clint’s still eating his meal without the slightest concern in the world. “Can we just eat and resume fighting later? This food is pretty good and I’m starving.”

Bucky tilts his head to watch Steve but he hasn’t moved, still processing all of his emotions at Bucky’s accusation. This is not going to solve anything right now. He sighs, and gives up, letting the fight slip out of his shoulders.

“Fine,” he mutters, refusing to look at Steve.

They eat silently for a few minutes before Thor begins to rapidly describe a past battle on another planet in great detail to remove the sudden pressure weighing all of them down.

It works. Clint laughs sardonically and pats Thor’s huge bicep. Steve loosens up a little but Bucky stops paying attention to him, because if he does it’s only going to rile him up again.

They finish their meals, Thor and Clint polishing off Natasha's abandoned plate before emptying a few more pitchers and the waitress returns to clear away their dishes. She asked if they enjoyed the food and Bucky loses himself in the decorated ceiling just for something else to focus on. The burst of visual stimulus is somehow calming.

They ask for the bill and everybody chips in except Thor because he tries to pay with a different planetary currency. Steve tips more than most because he might be oblivious but he’s always respectful when it comes to treating people fairly.

The waitress smiles at him, wide and genuine and says, “Du hast wunderschöne Augen.” 

Bucky can’t help himself, especially when Steve flushes at the compliment that the waitress probably assumed he wouldn’t understand. Steve makes it too easy sometimes.

“Er spricht auch deutsch,” he replies, winking and now it’s the waitress who’s embarrassed.

Steve hurries to make her feel at ease. “Danke,” he says, sincere and all baby blues that she’d praised a second earlier.

She’s instantly flustered as pretty much anybody might be when Steve unleashes his eyes on them and what’s worse is he doesn’t even realise that he’s doing it. The waitress nearly drops all of the money when Steve offers a smile of encouragement.

They wave to her as they head outside and even Bucky manages a smile as he moves out behind Steve. She’s talking in German to another waitress and gesturing subtly in their direction before they both start to giggle.

Well, at least someone had a good night.

When Bucky joins Clint, Thor and Steve outside nearly all of his resentment of the evening has vanished.

“Alright, who’s still hungry?” he wonders when he reaches the group.

Everyone grins back at him, clearly interested, though Steve is less enthusiastic about it and keeping his distance. He hates when Steve does that after a fight, backs off like he’s being all noble by giving Bucky his space. What a punk.

“Burgers?” he suggests, stepping close to Steve's side just to let him know he doesn't want him to get too far. Even after what happened.

“Pizza,” Clint counters as if he can already taste it.

“Fries,” Thor booms, overly enthusiastic at the idea.

And Steve, ever the pragmatist. “All of them?”

They get all three.

 

  
  


 

Bucky’s stomach is so full when he and Steve are walking back to Brooklyn that it seems like it might burst. He has no regrets.

“God, I think I ate too much,” he groans, complaining for the sake of it. “I don’t care. There’s so much food in this Century, Steve. It’s incredible.”

“Uh huh,” Steve replies indulgently, but he’s eaten just about the same amount.

Thor probably ate the most though out of the entire group. He eats like a giant.

They make it back to Bucky’s apartment but their stomachs are so laden with food that it takes them longer than usual. Bucky groans in relief when they reach the third floor.

He fumbles for his keys and gets the door unlocked, stumbling inside, already shrugging out of his coat. Steve dumps himself on the couch with a moan that shouldn’t make him shiver like it does and Bucky disappears into his bedroom to get into something more comfortable.

After opening the chest of drawers to grab what he needs, he tugs off his jeans, slipping into a pair of loose sweatpants and grabs one of his thick sweaters since it’s a little drafty in his apartment before pulling it over his shoulders. Steve’s already barefoot and claiming half of the couch when he returns.

“Wanna watch something?” he asks, redoing his hair since it’s gotten too loose and half of it is falling out of the elastic. Steve distractedly watches his fingers work the uncooperative strands into a bun.

“Yeah,” he agrees and Bucky nudges the remote towards him with his foot since his hands are currently occupied.

Steve fumbles a little but gets the TV turned on a second later, then starts flicking aimlessly through channels. He leaves it on a nature documentary that captures his interest just as much as it does Bucky and they sit there in silence for a while, not talking.

Someone bangs on the door when Bucky’s started dozing against Steve’s shoulder. He jerks awake instantly, senses on high alert as he habitually inspects the room. 

“Who’s that?” Steve slurs, rubbing at his eyes and sitting up. “It’s past ten.”

He doesn’t always walk around armed most days especially when he’s going to work but there are some weapons stashed around his apartment in case of an emergency.

Bucky pushes the sleeves up on the sweater, exposing his forearms to make it easier to pull the knife free from underneath a couch cushion. He stows it inside his waistband and carefully conceals the gash of his forearm again before going to answer the door once the banging starts up again.

It’s not in the realm of persons he would have ever expected.

It’s fucking _Todd_.

“What are you doing here?” he demands, surprised and angry that he's surprised. “How do you know this address?”

Todd’s peering over Bucky’s shoulder, trying unsubtly to see into the rest of his apartment. “Chill, man. It’s the Institute’s policy to keep the addresses of their employees on file.”

Bucky’s frown deepens. “But you don’t have access to those files.”

Todd’s expression turns distinctly resentful. “Chad gave me the address. Sent me over to see how you’re doing.”

His hand constricts on the frame of the open door, too tightly since it makes the wood groan. Bucky loosens his grip and tries not to be openly hostile. “Chad sent you,” he repeats. “Two days after I’ve already been back to work?”

“Yeah man,” Todd lies, clearly fumbling with excuses now. 

Bucky traces the outline of the knife tucked under his waistband to calm his nerves. He doesn’t like what’s happening right now, doesn’t approve of the aggressive way Todd’s inserted himself into his private life all of a sudden after months and months of disinterest.

He hears Steve get up from the couch and pad over towards the door. “Buck,” he calls, concerned. “Everything alright?”

Bucky figures it out when Steve steps into view behind him.

“Captain America,” Todd says, awed and pretending to be shocked as if this is just a mere coincidence.

“Oh, hello,” Steve says awkwardly when he sees Todd and like Bucky is not impressed but is polite enough not to be obvious about it. “I usually just go by Steve.”

Todd’s completely ignoring him now, eyes uncomfortably focused on Steve and Bucky’s had enough of this game.

“Okay, tell Chad thanks and I’m fine. I’ll see you at the Institute tomorrow.”

Bucky moves to shut the door and Todd actually tries to stick his foot in between it. Fortunately, he’s not fast enough, and the door snaps shut in his aggravating face.

“What-?” Steve tries to ask but Bucky waves a hand to keep him silent and waits.

He hasn’t heard any footsteps yet. Todd stands there for another minute, straining to hear the sounds going on in his apartment while he and Steve stand at the door quietly breathing.

Steve’s frowning so hard it’s like he’s about to physically disapprove this guy out of existence through sheer willpower alone, but he waits, thankfully, trusting Bucky’s judgement.

They hear Todd’s shoes scuff against the floorboards when he finally turns and slinks away.

“Who the hell was that?”

“Dickface I work with,” Bucky says, furious that Chad sold out his privacy for this. “Word must’ve spread that you were at my lesson yesterday and they’re trying to make connection to you through me.”

The apartment building isn’t a secure as Steve’s or Raenia’s place. Just about anybody can walk on up if they feel the need to.

It’s why he’s got the deadbolt.

Steve’s puzzled frown is more appealing than it has any right to be. “But what do they want with me?”

Bucky stomps over to the curtain and glances down at the street below, watching Todd’s fathead as he slinks around the corner. “Publicity. If Captain America is at the Institute they’ll want everybody to know about it. They probably want you to endorse them or something. Whatever it is, you shouldn’t show up at my work again.”

“Okay. I’m sorry for causing you trouble.”

He shrugs but doesn't feel any less uneasy. “Not your fault they’re pricks.”

Having Todd here has unsettled him much more than he would ever have guessed. This space of his is almost as private as Raenia’s. Sacred. He feels unclean all of a sudden like he needs to take a long shower to wipe off the tainted feelings Todd’s unwanted arrival unleashed.

“Can we get out of here?” he asks. “I feel- I can’t be here anymore.”

Steve’s already in the middle of putting his shoes back on. “Let’s go to my place. We’ll get a cab.”

The relief that settles into his gut will probably be short lived. He’s been avoiding Steve’s apartment for a reason. The place that Steve wants them to live in together as if it's that easy.

“Great,” he says and tries not to regret the decision.

Steve takes him home to Brooklyn and they accidentally fall asleep together on the couch right in the middle of watching Rocky for the first time. 

Sylvester Stallone is an impressive looking fella though Bucky and Steve could probably take him on.

They don’t end up talking about what happened with Natasha. 

Bucky’s not even surprised anymore.

 

  
  


 

Chad and Todd corner him ten minutes before he’s supposed to start the late Thursday session with Raenia. Bucky’s in the middle of getting ready in the empty studio so there’s no escape when they force their way inside.

“So you know Captain America,” Chad says without any of the pretence that Todd poorly attempted last night.

Bucky feels cold all over but manages a nonchalant shrug. “I guess.”

“You guess, man?” Todd bursts out, irritated. “He was at your place yesterday.”

He very pointedly does not divulge that he woke up this morning with Steve’s face buried in his neck either, the both of them curled intimately around another. That’s not going to help the situation. It's a good thing none of the guys in his class are interested in talking to Chad or Todd so they haven't heard any of the boyfriend rumours floating around. 

Chad and Todd have a habit of seeming very one dimensional and Bucky assumes homophobia sits in that heteronormative dudebro bracket. They're a bunch of douchebags as well so that's probably not doing them any favours. 

“So?” Bucky says, mulishly. “He’s friends with Natasha.”

Chad’s eyes widen but his thoughts seem adrift with imagining how much money he can make out of this. “Are you friends with all of the Avengers?”

Bucky shrugs, realising he’s made a mistake. “Sort of. I used to date Natasha but now we’re just friends.”

That part is true at least. When he trained Natasha in the red room, whilst he was still the blank slate of the Winter Soldier and Steve had long since been frozen in the ice.

“Awesome,” Chad says, though he would have to disagree. “You should invite them over here for free classes, or maybe even to teach-“

“I’m not gonna do that,” he says sharply, cutting him off before he can finish.

Their supposed good humour dries up. “Why not?” Todd wonders, crossing his arms as if he’s gearing up for a fight.

“Because I like my privacy,” Bucky mutters. “And so do they, what little of it they have.”

But Chad’s frowning now as if deep in thought. “What have _you_ got to hide?”

This was a mistake. Bucky’s only made them suspicious and more interested in him than he’d prefer they’d be. “Nothing. I’m just not gonna do it.”

His students are starting to enter and Raenia catches sight of him surrounded by Chad and Todd and immediately scowls.

“We’ll see,” Chad replies before smiling lewdly at Bucky’s students and strutting out of the room, Todd licking at his heels.

“I hope my first defensive tactic is punching those two assholes in their dicks,” Eudora announces loudly to the rest of the room.

The howls of laughter chase Chad and Todd into the hallway and Bucky’s grinning so much he nearly forgets to be worried about the confrontation.

Nearly.

 

  
  


“What was that about earlier?” Raenia wonders once the session is over and the rest of his students have already left the studio.

He sighs. “Wanting me to bring Steve around to get them publicity.”

Raenia is not shy with her distaste. “People are so disappointing.”

After he’s locked up they head down the stairwell together and Tony must’ve taken a real liking to Raenia, more than he’d admitted, since there’s a limo waiting for her outside to take her back to the Tower. 

It goes about as well as expected and they walk straight past the car without even stopping. They reach the next street over when Raenia’s finally found the strength to call Tony and passionately decline the offer, illuminating very carefully to him what boundaries are while Bucky’s trying not to laugh about it.

Then he spots Steve across the road, coffees in hand as if he was just in the neighbourhood and didn’t cross the entire city to get there and he doesn't know whether to feel worried or happy to see him. Raenia thanks him profusely when they reach him, enough to make Steve blush and Bucky grimly accepts the cup and hopes against hope that Chad and Todd haven’t decided to follow him home now on top of everything else.

They end up walking Raenia back to the Tower together even though both of their apartments are in the opposite direction. No one complains, though he catches Raenia glancing between them more often than not as if she’s observing something he’s unaware of. He’s reminded abruptly that she knows exactly what Natasha was up to last night even if she never told him about it. 

He can’t ask about it now since Steve is here and he won’t talk about it either.

Jarvis greets them at the door, scanning their body metrics and permitting them access but Raenia strides in confidently without pausing as if she’s already at home. She thanks them for walking her before adjusting the bag over her shoulder and heading for the staircase toward Tony’s lab. 

Clint comes out a moment later with a dog that Bucky has never seen before but apparently has been living here without Tony’s or anybody else’s prior knowledge. It's definitely a peculiar development. Clint only shrugs when they ask him about it and Steve is just as surprised by the appearance of a secret dog but they don’t protest when Clint follows them outside and asks if he and Lucky can join them.

Lucky is missing an eye but he’s exceedingly friendly and enthusiastic about the journey despite Clint constantly referring to him as the pizza dog. There’s a story behind that nickname for certain.

Bucky has no idea how Clint managed to bribe Jarvis into keeping him a secret for so long. For the entire time that he stayed there, nobody ever mentioned a dog. He’s actually pretty impressed.

“How did you get Jarvis to keep him quiet?” he asks, rubbing gently behind Lucky’s ears before Lucky pads forward and gently butts his snout into Steve’s knee. 

Bucky promptly pulls his hand back before it gets too close to Steve’s crotch but Clint only taps his nose conspiratorially at them and winks. That's another answer to a question he won't be getting today. 

Clint and Lucky walk with them for several blocks before turning around to double back because it’s too far for Lucky to walk the rest of the way. Somehow the night ends with the two of them, Steve’s arm swinging familiarly next to his as they head back into Brooklyn.

“I was hoping we could spend more time like this,” Steve admits apropos of nothing when the conversation has settled into restful silence again. 

He startles at the words, at the simplicity of such a confession when all they're doing is strolling through the city. Because neither of them enjoy the cramped spaces of the subway and walking is cheaper. Before he can ask though, Steve is already elaborating.

“We’ve haven’t had much time alone since- you came back.”

He nearly laughs before noticing Steve is one hundred per cent serious. To Bucky, it’s feels like all they’ve done since he remembered himself again is be alone together. It’s really been pushing at his self-control, constantly being around him like this but not in the way he wants.

“You sly dog,” he teases. “Been tryna put the moves on me?”

Steve turns beet-red but still somehow rolls his eyes, mouth twitching as if he’s not sure whether to smile or frown. “Very funny, Buck.”

The sad thing is though, he’s not even really joking that much. 

God, he’s gotta stop getting his hopes up like this, reading for a double meaning in everything Steve does. This is just a foolish way to make himself hurt more than he needs to.

Bucky knows what Steve’s like when he’s got his heart set on a dame. He’s seen him act it around Peggy, all quiet and respectful with his admiration but long lingering looks that spell out every feeling written in his eyes. He’d know if Steve felt even the slightest way that he does but there’s none of those signs to pay attention to. 

Just Steve being Steve like always.

He doesn’t feel the same way and Bucky needs to start accepting that or he’ll end up ruining their friendship altogether. After so many years, he can’t imagine anything worse.

“You know me,” he sighs, raking fingers through his own hair. 

Steve watches the move keenly as if he’s committing it to memory so he can draw it later. 

Bucky hopes so. He hopes Steve hasn’t given up entirely on the things he used to love before Captain America. 

“Always the comedian.”

Steve chuckles and slings an arm across his shoulders. It’s such a marvel now how he barely even needs to stretch to do it. Bucky was always the one tucking Steve under his arm and pressing him up against his side. Steve’s always fit into all of Bucky’s hidden spaces.

Even now.

“I missed this,” Steve says, undaunted and unashamed of the emotional waver in his voice.

His stomach lurches at the sound, feeling Steve’s arm pressing heat to the back of his neck like an unwritten claim.

“I missed you too, pal,” he says, but doesn’t tell Steve how much.

It’s enough even if all that he can have is this.

It’s enough.

 

  
  


 

Memories of cruelty and bathed blood wake him up in the middle of the night. He’s reaching automatically for Steve with a gasp and it quickly transforms into a groan when he realises he’s not there.

“Buck?” Steve calls quietly, and that’s right, Steve walked him home again and then fell asleep on his ancient couch.

“Yeah,” he croaks, listening to Steve get up and come closer to the door. 

It swings open under his light touch and he seems as tired as Bucky feels.

“Memory?”

Bucky jerks his head in response. He doesn’t want to talk about it. Instead he gestures at the spot on the bed where Steve might fit if he wants to.

“Could you,” he starts and can’t finish. “You wanna-?”

Steve’s expression is pained. “I’m sorry, I can’t,” he says and Bucky turns his face to hide the hurt there. “I have an assignment tomorrow. Mission for Fury. I should probably go.”

“Yeah, okay,” he replies, covering his mouth to yawn even though his fingers are shaking.

“You alright?” Steve checks before he’s about to leave.

Bucky’s not going to tell him otherwise. “Yeah, I’m fine. Good luck with your assignment. Be careful.”

“Always am,” he promises which is a stone faced lie.

He hesitates for another second, before he disappears and Bucky listens to his apartment door slide shut and lock. He could’ve said he’s not fine but what would that have done? Force Steve into staying when he clearly doesn’t want to.

It doesn’t matter.

Bucky’s always hidden his hurt.

Even when he shouldn’t.

 

  
  


 

Steve’s gone for three whole days, complete radio silence and Bucky tries not to feel sick with the worry of it. But the thing about Steve Rogers is that he’s too stubborn to die, he just gets back up and keeps swinging.

In that he can trust. Steve’s a self-sacrificing idiot but he knows what he’s doing. He can hold his own in a fight. But it’s a hard fact to remember when Bucky’s had his back nearly all of his life, in war, in the streets and on the playground.

Even if he does believe in Steve’s skills, he wishes that he was privy to the parameters of the assignment anyway. Nobody even told him where Steve is except that Clint went as well so it’s definitely a covert op. Not dangerous enough to warrant Natasha’s specific skill set.

At least he knows that Clint will watch Steve’s back. Even if he won’t watch his own.

Sam, Raenia and Natasha keep him company Saturday night but he’s already used to spending all of his evenings with Steve. The lack of his reassuring blonde head leaves Bucky strangely bereft.

He’s still a little hurt by what happened before Steve left but can’t blame him for not wanting to share a bed and that’s part of the problem. Maybe if he blamed Steve a little more, focused on the ways he makes Bucky mad with anger sometimes, he’d be able to get over him quicker.

As if Steve is something he can just _get over_.

“So what are we thinking?” Sam wonders, interrupting his introspection. “Takeout?”

Raenia quickly vetoes the idea. “That one there might be inhuman and able to eat as much food as he wants,” she says, jerking a thumb at Bucky. “But I need a balanced healthy diet to keep me going.”

“I can make Massaman beef curry,” he suggests, drumming his fingers distractedly against the counter.

Chad and Todd hadn’t bothered him yesterday but only for the fact that he showed up to his session at the last possible second and packed everything up once it was finished in record time. He was out of the Institute so quickly that he overtook nearly all of his students heading for the subway.

Sam is astoundingly alarmed while Natasha pockets her phone and looks considerably interested by the offer. “ _You_ know how to cook?”

“Fuck you,” he mutters, fingers getting louder against the countertop to drain out Sam’s laughter.

“That works,” Natasha agrees. “Do we need to head out to the store or do you have all the ingredients?”

Bucky’s fridge lately, in light of the two super soldiers basically living in it for the past week, is woefully bare. “I need to get groceries.”

“Avengers shopping trip?” Raenia suggests.

Bucky groans. “We talked about this. You can’t just throw Avengers in front of the things we do to make them sound more interesting.”

Raenia only waggles her eyebrows indecently. “Watch me, asshole.”

Sam laughs again as Bucky scowls and reaches out for his house keys, scooping them off the bench.

They head down to Fine Fare Supermarket on Saratoga Avenue and it’s almost strange being alone with just the three of them as if he’s back to being Jay again. He could almost pretend if he wanted, if not for the very notable Steve shaped portion occupying his chest these days.

He’s lucky he’s with two of the more unidentifiable members of the Avengers. If it had been him and Steve, or Tony going grocery shopping they’d be getting stopped in every aisle. 

He doesn’t get how Steve has the patience to stand in for every single photo people ask of him, Natasha has the advantage of menace on her side so she mostly has to deal with the very unsubtle photographs taken from hip level with iPhones as if she’s not a spy who can sense that. More often than not their phones aren’t even on silent. People are shameless these days.

Luckily that isn’t much of a problem tonight. The supermarket is almost empty and if any citizens happen to recognise Natasha she’s at the opposite end of the aisle before they can do anything invasive about it.

They stalk through the products together and efficiently select ingredients, though Sam expresses doubt in Bucky’s cooking skills several times just to be an ass. 

It’s frankly insulting. As if he hasn’t picked up a few things whilst being alive for more than ninety years. Not to mention living off whatever scraps of food he and Steve could make a meal of. Bucky’s gotten pretty good at making something out of nothing.

And there’s such a thing as the Internet now so if he wants to try cooking something new he can just Google a recipe. He should switch the meat to chicken in the curry just so he can keep making bird jokes for the rest of the night at Sam’s expense. 

That’d give him a taste of what he’s been dishing out.

Sam turns around the corner to grab some chips with a smirk when Bucky finally turns his attention to Natasha. Raenia is inspecting a packet of gummy maggots with a raised eyebrow.

“So what’s going on then with you and Steve?” he wonders after confirming there’s no other customers within earshot.

Natasha’s smile is much too triumphant. Raenia’s eyes shift attentively between them, evidently overhearing the conversation.

“Oh look there’s something over there,” she announces unnecessarily and moves past Bucky to follow Sam and make her escape, clearly wanting nothing to do with this.

She pats his shoulder in silent apology and he tries not to feel frustrated or overly betrayed that she knows what’s going on and is refusing to tell him.

Natasha waits until Raenia disappears and then she has his attention again. “I’m helping him,” she surrenders with a sly twist to her mouth like she’s savouring a private joke.

Bucky does not have time for her misdirection right now. This is the first opportunity he’s had to be alone with her since the fight at dinner and he’s not going to pass up the opportunity to grill her. He doesn’t like the idea of people being at odds with Steve and giving him a hard time. Especially if they happen to be his friends.

“Didn’t look much like helping the other night,” he points out.

Natasha’s smile is full of hooks, luring him in. “Steve seems to be under the impression that he can get through life without asking for things.”

“Oh really?” he echoes sarcastically. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Then he frowns, thinking it over for a second. Steve’s reaction at Rolf’s still doesn’t make sense. What exactly did Steve want? 

“And that’s what your fight was about?”

Natasha shrugs, turning her face away. “Steve thinks that if he waits long enough what he wants will happen naturally and magically fall into his lap. He’s waiting for someone to take it from him.”

She’s talking in riddles but he thinks he might understand what she’s trying to say. “I think enough people have taken things from Steve already,” he agrees eventually.

Natasha sighs heavily. “So you see my problem.”

“Not really,” he admits. “And I don’t see how it’s your problem anyhow.”

“It’s my problem because it’s affecting how he operates in the field. He’s too distracted. He needs to learn how to ask for things. I’m trying to teach him how to be selfish.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Our teaching methods are very different.”

“But effective,” she acknowledges.

He begs to differ. “If you keep going after him like this he’s just gonna shut down and you’ll be dealing with unmovable wall Steve. You can’t win a fight like this. Steve’s stubbornness can survive centuries. You need to change your approach.”

Natasha seems willing to take the advice into consideration. Good. Maybe that might improve the rocky foundation of her and Steve’s friendship right now. 

Sam and Raenia return with Sam’s arms full of at least three bags of various types of chips that Raenia counters with a punnet of strawberries and bunch of grapes. To even out the combination of unhealthy foods. When Natasha procures some crackers and cheese and Bucky’s basket is full, they’re ready to move towards the check out. 

The cashier definitely recognises Natasha but is smart enough not to mention it.

They stop at a bottle shop on the way back to his apartment and Natasha selects two bottles of wine that are reasonably cheap and would pair well with the dish he’s making. The walk back to his place is faster because all of them are energised by hunger.

Bucky starts setting up once they’re back in his apartment as Sam opens a bag of chips and puts a film on. He wastes no time trying to figure out if he’s seen it. It's more than likely that he hasn’t.

He hands Raenia one of his largest plates to use as a makeshift platter and Natasha sets up the fruit, cheese and crackers in an artful arrangement on the coffee table that seems out of place opposite his ratty couch. 

He has no idea where SHIELD found that couch since they furnished this place but some part of him suspects it might be older than he is. There’s a knock on his door when Bucky’s in the middle of dicing vegetables and he hesitates a second before distinctly putting the knife down to answer it.

It’s Thor.

Bucky’s surprised for a second. He’d been told that he was busy with Tony and Banner tonight.

“Thor?” he says, stepping aside to allow access to his apartment.

Thor steps in with a cheery smile and Bucky locks the door behind him. “I have been banished from the sanctum of Avengers Tower after I defeated Lincoln of the Welders”

Raenia nearly drops the slice of cheese held between her fingers. “I’m sorry you broke his Lincoln Welder?”

“Aye,” Thor agrees, grimly but with little remorse.

It was probably an accident. Maybe Tony goaded him into using the hammer to help them in the construction process. Of whatever they're constructing. They still haven't told anyone yet. Tony just likes to build suspense.

Bucky waves him over in a gesture to get comfortable with the others in the living room. 

Thor heads toward them and Bucky finally notices the oddly shaped bottle in his hand. Raenia is still stumped on the disaster Thor has apparently created in the lab and pulls out her cell phone and starts furiously texting Tony for an update.

Sam notices the bottle as well. “What’s that?” he asks, curious.

“I have supplied my own mead for the occasion,” Thor declares before setting it down proudly next to Natasha’s bottles of wine. “But I warn you it is stronger than a charging Rock Troll.”

Natasha’s attention significantly skyrockets. “Do you think it could get Barnes drunk?” she wonders, curiously.

Bucky raises an eyebrow. He’s a little doubtful but if anything could make that happen it’s most likely to be a brew from a foreign planet.

He slips back into the kitchen and returns to the chopping board. It’s a good thing he bought enough ingredients to feed at least two super soldiers because there will probably still be enough to go around. It's a good feeling knowing that Thor decided to come here even after the things Bucky's done to him. He's still not sure why Thor isn't upset about being punched by a heavy duty mechanical arm. 

Aliens are weird. 

Once he gets the pot boiling and is finished with the vegetables, Bucky starts cutting up the beef. Thor joins him a second later in search of glasses and he indicates the right cupboard. As he moves he can’t help but notice Thor’s hammer is still attached to his hip, even dressed as he is in civilian clothes.

Bucky wonders if he’s ever unarmed. Thor’s biceps are dangerous enough weapons by themselves.

“Do you require aid? I am capable with a blade though it is the Lady Sif who wields them with much greater skill in battle.”

Using a sword for cooking seems like overkill and swordplay doesn't seem entirely relevant in the kitchen but if Thor’s offering he’s not going to deny him the chance. He gets Thor to chop up the rest of the beef and starts on making the curry sauce.

Thor’s a little overenthusiastic but does alright. He might end up cutting the kitchen top open if he keeps applying too much pressure to it though. The curry is simmering in the biggest pot he owns when Sam comes over to the kitchen brandishing Thor’s alien brand of alcohol.

“Do you wanna try it?” he wonders, expression curious as if he’s just as interested as Bucky is about the mead's possible effects.

He hasn’t been drunk in so long he’s not sure that he can even remembering the feeling of it anymore. It’s worth a try.

“Lay it on me,” Bucky agrees and Sam unstoppers the bottle and fills a cup.

He sniffs it first and promptly chokes on the fumes before he hands it over. That seems like a promising sign. He accepts the drink with only a vague sense of unease. The smell of it is strong and he’s not expecting it to taste good when he brings the cup to his lips.

It doesn’t burn his throat in the same way strong spirits do and his eyes widen at the taste. It’s like drinking golden honey. Or liquid sunlight. He’s not sure he’s ever tasted anything so sweet. Heat pools in his belly from the small sip.

Sam is watching his reaction with anticipation. “Feel anything?”

Bucky only shrugs. “Not yet. The taste is unbelievable though.”

Sam tastes a cautionary sip out of Bucky’s glass. His face immediately contorts after it fills his mouth and when he swallows it down his lips remain pursed like he’s on the verge of gagging.

“Too sweet?” Bucky guesses, figuring it’s too much.

“What?” Sam splutters, passing the glass back. “Too sour. God, you think that tastes nice? What is wrong with you?”

Bucky only shrugs and drains the rest of the glass. When he heads over to couch, Sam allows him to take Thor’s mead off of his hands.

He passes it to Natasha as soon as he finds a place to sit down. “Too sweet or too sour?” he asks.

Natasha, never one to back down from a challenge, accepts the bottle and drinks straight from it. Her expression remains serene throughout the experience but that could mean anything.

“Too salty,” she replies and hands it back to Thor.

Thor drinks an unusually small amount as if he’s trying to pace himself before passing it back on to Bucky.

Since he’s not feeling anything so far and it tastes like being wrapped in warm blankets or sitting in the sun until he’s sleepy with it, Bucky pours himself another glass.

He has no idea what they’re watching but Raenia helpfully informs him it’s the Godfather and silently asks for his glass. Bucky holds it out and Raenia leans over to inhale the fragrance of the alien mead.

Her nose wrinkles. “It smells bitter.”

“This brew rarely tastes alike to those who drink it,” Thor explains with a laugh. “It is favoured among the Aesir and is the only mead that ever sweetens Loki’s harsh tongue.”

It’s a nice thought, thinking that Loki could ever be sweet. Or that he could act in such a way towards Thor. Bucky’s glad that he’s happy. He understands what a struggle it must have been to realise the man he’s fought to keep close all of his life has nothing to do with brotherly affection. 

He can relate.

Raenia only nods without even bothering to react anymore, as if she’s accepted it by now. Bucky can’t believe how well she’s adapted. He takes another gulp of the mead as a contented smile softens his face, loosening the ball of stress he's been carrying around lately, trying to resolve his feelings for Steve. When the curry is ready he stays on the couch while Natasha and Sam head to the kitchen and start serving up dishes.

The food that's left on the makeshift platter tastes good and Bucky’s munching on a combination of cheese, crackers and strawberries before he stretches out lazily in the freed up space of the couch and tries to focus on the movie. It’d be a lot easier to follow if he hadn’t sat down after it started twenty minutes earlier.

He feels a little fuzzy after they’ve eaten dinner and doesn’t actually comprehend what’s happening until he tries to stand up to put his empty bowl in the sink and collapses unsteadily back onto the couch instead. A laugh bubbles out of his throat as if his legs have suddenly turned coltish under him without permission but he eventually manages to stand. 

Raenia’s watching the action with open bewilderment.

“Are you feeling something?” she wonders and everyone else’s attention slides towards him with avid interest.

He’s too loose limbed to be put on edge by their regard. “Just fuzzy. I’m good.”

“So it _does_ work,” Natasha announces with a satisfied grin.

Bucky shrugs, wondering why she’s so pleased by that. “Only a little. I don’t think it’s strong enough to do much damage.”

He finally makes it to the kitchen to place his bowl into the sink, not as sure footed as he usually is. He remembers this part at least. This was what he enjoyed most about getting drunk.

The initial buzz where his emotions soar and the world becomes touched with gold for a little while. That kind of happiness was hard to find during war time especially in the beginning when he’d been without Steve.

Bucky disappears into his bedroom with the sudden urge to get into something more comfortable. He wiggles out of his jeans, nearly tripping over his own feet and tears off his Henley.

He slips into his favourite pair of baggy sweatpants and a warm sweater and his phone buzzes when he returns to reclaim his spot on the couch.

It’s Steve.

**Hey. We’re back early. Mission went off without a hitch.**

It doesn’t escape his notice that Steve makes no effort to declare that he is fine which probably means he broke something. And that it’s probably healed itself by now.

 **Good** , he replies and his fingers only fumble a little with typing out the message.

Steve’s response is nearly instantaneous.

 **I missed you,** he says as if he doesn’t realise what that does to Bucky. Telling him things like this. He might be angry if he didn’t know for certain that Steve has no idea what he’s doing. 

**Not used to being apart again.**

And Jesus, what’s he supposed to do in the face of that? Nearly two weeks since he’s gotten Steve back and it all still feels so raw. He wishes he were here right now but his brain knows better.

 **I missed you too, pal** he replies because he can’t not give and give and give especially when he knows that Steve never takes. That he’ll give back just as much.

Maybe that’s the problem. They’re too wrapped up in this push and pull to see anything different. Maybe they’re holding each other back from having a future with someone, even if it might not be with each other.

**Can I come over?**

Bucky wants him to. God, does he want him to but Thor’s mead is definitely working its way through his system now. And he knows exactly what alcohol did to him last time with Steve and he hadn’t even allowed himself to realise he was in love with him then. 

What might he do with what he knows now?

Bucky knows that he’s not out of control. He’d never do anything Steve wouldn’t want to do but there’s a frightening part of him that thinks that Steve will just let him do what he wants. Just like he did last time. Out of pity or kindness or something else that makes his stomach twist.

He doesn’t want to do anything stupid that’s all. And it’s been proven that alcohol makes him stupid.

“I think Barnes is drunk,” Natasha observes before he can think of a suitable response to keeping Steve at bay without hurting his feelings.

He sets his phone down on the coffee table with indignation. “I’ll have you know, doll, that a true gentleman is never drunk.”

Natasha’s smile is wide. “But you’re no gentleman.”

He laughs because he can’t help it. She’s right. Bucky’s no gentleman. Never has been. If he was he’d never have climbed atop of Steve’s hip bones in the dark, never would’ve slid his searching hands under Steve’s untucked shirt to feel the warm skin beneath it.

A crease appears between Raenia’s eyebrows but he doesn’t ask her about it and rocks to his feet instead. He could use some water. He’s filling a glass when the atmosphere in the living room brightens.

“Steve and Clint are back,” Natasha calls. “They’re coming over.” 

Bucky’s head is still swimming a little so he doesn’t immediately catch her meaning.

“What?” he wonders, padding back into the room with a glass of water and his metal arm tucked into his chest.

“Cap and Clint,” Sam repeats, oblivious to Bucky’s internal dilemma at the announcement.

It doesn’t sound right. He hadn’t answered Steve’s text yet and he knows his Irish manners would never have allowed him to come over without an invitation from the host. And that’s Bucky. He doesn’t react but when he collapses onto the couch again next to Raenia and picks up his cell phone, he realises his mistake.

He left it unlocked. And the messages between him and Steve opened on the screen for anyone to read or respond to. His unwanted reply swims accusingly up at him.

**Course. Everyone’s already at my place. Bring Clint too.**

He looks to the obvious suspect. Natasha is smiling around the rim of her wine glass.

“Natasha,” he starts but startles at the notable slur to his words. “What are you doing?”

Natasha only smirks. “Changing my approach.”

Her face swims in front of him enough that he can’t focus in order to feel sufficiently angry with her. This mead is clearly made of sterner stuff, harder for the serum to metabolise.

Thor is beaming with triumph. “You feel the effects of the brew,” he crows. “Three mouthfuls and any warrior’s night shall be lively.” 

Bucky feels the room spin as Raenia stiffens beside him.

“I’m sorry did you say three sips?” Sam repeats. “Cause our boy Barnes here had three _glasses_ full of that alien mead.”

Thor’s humour wanes a little. “Ah, all will be well. Do not fret, you shall sleep well tonight indeed.”

“The serum’s probably broken down most of it already right?” Raenia wonders to the group at large as Bucky sways in his seat, heart pounding.

“The effects creep upon the senses slowly before one is ambushed by them,” Thor explains. “Your thoughts and actions become unchallenged and many experience a great sense of satisfaction.”

“I’ll be right back,” he mutters, rising out of the seat and aiming for the bathroom.

“Bucky,” Raenia starts, but he waves her away.

“I’m fine. I just need a minute.”

He sits on the closed toilet lid for five minutes and tries to think. Thor wasn’t wrong. The effects of the mead _had_ crept up on him so much that he almost hadn’t recognised what was happening. The fact that Steve will be here soon is not helping the situation.

The last thing he needs right now is a crutch to make him brave and remove all of the common sense keeping him silent about his feelings. Steve doesn’t want to know about that. He’s been pretty clear about it by avoiding any discussions on the topic. It’s why they’ve never spoken about their bodies moving together in the dark, or why Steve never told him he’s bisexual, or the fact that Bucky fucking _kissed_ him and Steve just told him that he was confused afterward.

He doesn’t want to know.

There’s a firm tap at the door and somehow, he knows it’s Raenia. He manages to unlock it but fumbles with the knob so it takes longer. Once she realises he’s got his pants on, she confidently steps into the bathroom and shuts the door behind her.

“You gotta help me,” he says, staring at his feet.

Raenia takes a step forward. “Of course I will. Are you okay? What do you need?”

“I’m pretty much on the way to drunk,” he admits. “But I wouldn’t have done it if I knew he was coming home tonight or that he’d be coming here. Rae, you gotta help me.”

“You still haven’t said what I’m supposed to be helping you with.”

Bucky knots his fingers together. “You gotta keep Steve away from me.”

Raenia only raises an eyebrow, not understanding.

“Drinking makes me stupid,” he stresses. “And you know what happened last time when I was drunk and stupid.”

“When you both were drunk and stupid,” she points out patiently. “And I know you’re not like that. You’re not gonna force yourself on, Steve.”

“You don’t know that,” he says miserably. “I’ve done it before and that was when I didn’t even understand how badly I loved him. Imagine what I’ll do now if I lose control.”

“You’re not going to do anything. I won’t let you. Steve won’t let you. You’ll stop yourself before it gets to that.”

He rubs at his face with a strangled laugh. “You don’t get it. I didn’t even remember him and he still didn’t stop me from kissing him. He’ll let me do anything, I know.”

“You don’t-“

“I know, Raenia,” he repeats firmly. “He was gonna let me kill him in DC rather than fight me. And I nearly did it. He’ll let me, Rae.”

“Alright then why don’t you just go to bed, say you don’t feel well?”

Bucky laughs. “Do _not_ let me go to bed. He’ll come in to check on me, c’mon it’s _Steve_ , you know he will and then I’ll ask him to stay.”

“What if that’s what he wants?” Raenia wonders, resting her hip up against the porcelain sink. 

Her frown is troubled and concerned. For him. He’s lucky that she's still his friend.

“It’s not,” he says and tries to keep the hurt out of his voice. “I asked him before he left. I’d had another nightmare and I asked him to share the bed, same as we did that first night in the Tower. And he said no. Please, Rae.”

“Okay, okay,” she says, thinking. “What if I kick everyone out?”

“Won’t matter. Steve will make sure he stays and if we’re left alone I’m gonna be stupid with it.”

“I think you might be underestimating yourself. Thor said the alien booze makes you more relaxed and open but it’s not going to suddenly make you start blurting out your hidden feelings for Steve.”

“You can’t be sure though. What if I-?”

“Yes, I can,” Raenia retorts. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll make sure you don’t make an ass of yourself.”

“I’m already making an ass of myself,” he mutters, raking fingers through his hair and releasing a forlorn sigh.

“Can you stay tonight? Keep me honest?”

“Oh Bucky,” she says, shaking her head sadly. “You don’t need anyone else for that. You don’t give yourself nearly enough credit.”

He laughs again because he’s not so sure he believes her but now he’s running out of energy to protest.

“So are you ready to go back out there or do you want to sit on the toilet seat for another ten minutes?”

Bucky groans and climbs to his feet. Raenia only has to steady him a little.

“Who knows," she continues. "Maybe it’ll be out of your system before Steve even shows up. Maybe the effects won’t last.”

 

  
  


The effects _do_ last but not in the way he’s expecting. He gets looser, warm and unwound in a state of repose that normally would never be possible. Especially in a room full of people. Even if he considers those people to be his closest friends.

Bucky doesn’t like to fall asleep around others if he can avoid it, which he does because he doesn’t trust the vulnerability of closing his eyes. It’s leftover from his time in the cryo chamber, knowing if he shuts them a decade might pass without him knowing it.

He can do it around Steve. And Raenia now as well, since circumstances forced his hand but there’s no chance of Bucky ever curling up on the couch with his friends and nodding off mid conversation.

But that’s exactly what he does. Bucky tilts his face into the crook of his elbow, resting on the couch arm and lets his eyes slide shut. He’s warm and safe and unconcerned, metal arm lying laxly by his side as he listens to the crescendo of voices shift and roll like music.

He doesn’t mean to drift but the alien mead hits him all at once and he succumbs to the contentment it breeds. Then he just lets his mind float for a while. He’s brought back by gentle hands sifting through the strands of his hair and the mead has dulled his senses so much that he doesn’t flinch at the touch. The sharpness of Raenia’s voice cuts through the languor as his eyes flutter open.

“Leave him alone,” she snaps. “He’s drunk.”

His heavy lidded gaze falls on Steve hovering over him before he quickly withdraws his hand. His cheeks are flushed pink and Bucky wants nothing more than to crawl in his lap and stay there.

“Heyyy Stevie,” he mumbles spotting Clint accepting a sip of alien mead from Thor behind them.

That’s gonna end well for sure. Steve’s frowning at him now and Bucky knows he’s looking for trouble.

“I should get him to bed,” he says and his heart swoops dangerously in his chest.

“Bucky didn’t want to go,” Raenia replies nudging his shoulder meaningfully and he vaguely remembers thinking something to that effect.

“I’m good here,” he promises, though his head is still spinning.

Steve’s jaw clenches but there’s no room for him to join them. He sits down on the rug instead, almost within reach.

“There is little to fear,” Thor’s voice rumbles over the conversation. “You’re shieldmate is not in danger.”

He can hear Natasha laughing but doesn’t bother to check for Steve’s reaction. Bucky’s too comfortable right now to even lift his head. Steve’s exclamation when he finally tastes Thor’s alien mead is unmistakeable though.

“It’s like drinking liquid sunlight,” he proclaims, astonished.

See? He thinks. At least someone understands the appeal. 

It’s no wonder Bucky's in love with him.

 

  
  


He wakes up curled around muscle and the splay of blonde hair across the pillow nearly gives him heart palpitations. Thankfully the other bodies in the bed allays his fears.

He turns over and nearly elbows Raenia who’s wide awake with her lips pressed tight together as if to prevent herself from shifting uneasily.

“Rae,” he hisses and gestures violently at the blonde his arm is currently slung around. “What did I do last night?”

“It’s not you who was the problem,” she whispers back, just as violently as he silently extracts himself. “He wanted to sleep here but I insisted. You owe me.”

He does. He knows how uncomfortable she is with having to share her space at night. Especially when she experiences such vicious nightmares. Bucky’s about to protest further, argue that this isn’t much of a better alternative when Steve and Sam enter the bedroom.

“I can’t believe the four of you fit on Barnes’ shitty mattress,” Sam announces very loudly.

The not-Steve mound stirs and Bucky quickly realises that he was snuggling Clint for the duration of the night. Natasha is on the opposite side of the bed and gratefully accepts the coffee cup from Sam.

“I can’t believe Barnes is such a cuddler,” Clint says around a yawn. “I should climb into your bed more often.”

“Clint-“ Steve starts, eyebrows drawn with consternation.

“Relax. I’m only half kidding.”

“I need more coffee before I can handle any of you right now,” Bucky says, sitting up with a groan.

“Not so cheery anymore,” Clint grumbles but he’s only teasing.

Steve edges around the mattress towards him and hands him a styrofoam cup. Bucky doesn’t even question it, just brings it to his lips. Steve knows what he likes.

His hand comes down on Bucky’s forehead a second later. “How you feeling, Buck?”

“’M fine Steve,” he mutters, pushing his hand away and ignoring the flicker of hurt across his face. “Quit stressing.”

“To be fair, you did drink a _lot_ of alien booze,” Natasha acknowledges and Bucky scowls, climbing out of the sheets and hitting the cold floorboards.

Steve follows him around the bed but Bucky ducks into the ensuite bathroom and snaps the door shut behind him just for some breathing room.

There are a lot of people in his apartment right now and that takes some getting used to. The fact that he’s been under the influence of an alien intoxicant is definitely not helping the tightness of sharp panic in his chest. He does feel fine though. The mead must’ve passed out of his system some time last night because his head is clear again and he’s back to hyper alertness.

Steve is waiting for him after he splashes his face with water and ventures back out again.

He doesn’t push past him like he wants to but plants his feet and waits for the lecture on trying substances from other planets. Bucky’s willing to admit it might have been a little bit risky.

Steve doesn’t lecture him though. He opens his arms wide and encourages Bucky to step into them which he does almost unthinkingly.

“I’m glad you're back,” he mutters into his throat. “Seeing you last night was…”

“What?” Bucky demands, withdrawing quickly. “What did I do?”

“Nothing,” Steve says. “You could barely lift you head up. Thor said you’d be fine but I was still worried about you.”

He winces at the description. “You don’t need to be, I doubt I’ll be drinking that again.”

“Or you could just try the normal amount. See how that goes,” he teases.

Bucky rolls his eyes but can’t stop the smile from forming around his mouth. “Yeah right, you’ve been dragging my drunk ass to bed for half of our lives.”

“To our bed,” Steve clarifies quietly, hastily dropping his gaze. “And I didn’t mind.”

The statement is startling in a way that he can't explain and for a wild second he thinks Steve’s referring to the other things they might’ve done in that bed but Steve offers that harmless quirked smile of his and stuffs his hands into his pockets. It’s one of his nervous habits. But Bucky has no idea what he could be nervous about.

“Look,” he says, scratching behind his jaw. “I know there’s a lot of things that we need to talk about but haven’t-,” he starts to Bucky’s utter astonishment.

He never thought that Steve would admit such a thing, let alone bring it up intentionally in the conversation.

“Do we _ever_ ,” he agrees, unsure of where to start.

They shouldn’t be doing this with an apartment full of their friends at the ready but for the moment Bucky doesn’t care, eyes not straying from Steve’s face. This opportunity has never come up between them before and this might be their only chance to have this conversation.

He’s thrilled at the prospect but equally wary, guarding himself for the risk of hurt.

“Buck, you gotta know-,” he starts, stepping forward with hands out like he’s gonna touch him and Bucky’s already moving closer before Natasha suddenly appears and pushes at Steve’s shoulder, dragging him away.

“C’mon let’s get breakfast. I’m starving.”

He stills and swiftly turns away, the moment broken when she tugs Steve out of the bedroom. Raenia and Clint slowly pull themselves off of the mattress and Bucky watches them struggle with a distracted kind of fascination.

Raenia’s eyebrow is raised in silent question but Bucky jerks his head and she drops it, tabling that round of questions for later. And there will be a later. He owes her for having his back last night from stopping him from making a mistake he’d regret.

He’ll take her out for a bite to eat as a thank you.

“You’re very protective of each other,” Steve’s voice observes at his ear and Bucky startles, having thought he’d already left the room. “She wouldn’t let me near you, had me feeling like a heel for even thinking about it.”

Bucky laughs because he can’t help it. The thought is so ridiculous.

“Trust me,” he says. “You’re not the heel here.”

Steve’s face scrunches up with confusion but he doesn’t have the chance to ask because Bucky hurries out of the room after Clint. He spots Thor spread eagled across his ratty couch and realises he’s not even angry about what happened last night. It was an accident.

There’s a knock on the door a second later and Clint’s letting Tony and Banner into his apartment.

Tony’s wearing expensive looking sunglasses, coffee in hand and glances around the place in one seamless action. “You guys had a party and didn’t invite me? Banner I get, c’mon he’s a party faux pas. But me? I’m offended.”

“You were invited, Tony” Raenia points out, not taking any of his shit this early in the morning. “You and Bruce just didn’t want to leave the lab. You didn’t miss much.”

“Yeah right,” Clint counters, snorting. “Barnes got drunk off Thor’s alien booze.”

Tony is somewhat delighted by this announcement. “What? You’re kidding. Did he and Cap passionately make out?”

Steve who’s in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil, overhears, and the mug promptly shatters in his hands from squeezing it too tight. Everyone turns to stare at him after the sound and his ears turn pink.

“Sorry,” he mutters and bends down to scoop up the mess.

Bucky sighs quietly to himself. “Dust pan’s below the-“

But Steve’s already retrieved it from the correct cupboard. Bucky tries not to frown. Steve has an eidetic memory though so he probably saw Bucky open the cupboard once and unintentionally memorised its contents.

“Are you two like living together now?” Tony demands, making assumptions.

“No,” Bucky says. “We should probably head out for breakfast. I don’t have enough to feed everyone.”

The discussion of food distracts Tony and everybody else and gives Steve enough time to clean up the mess he made. His skin is still pink once he’s finished tipping the remains of his mug into the trash.

“Maybe someone should grab food and bring it back here,” Raenia suggests. “Hate to break it to you all but you’re all still famous and bound to draw unwanted attention to certain individuals.”

Oh. She’s talking about Bucky and in some part, herself. Even Sam who still seems to insist that nobody knows he’s The Falcon. Bucky takes his coffee towards the couch and sits on the rug in front of it, ignoring the rumbles of Thor’s expanding chest as he sleeps.

“I’ll stay,” Steve says wiping his hands and looking determined before he goes to approach Bucky.

“No. We’ll need your help carrying food,” Natasha says, waving out her hands to stop him.

Bucky frowns at Steve’s disgruntled expression and wonders if this is what Natasha’s different approach entails. 

This is getting frustratingly odd. Steve’s eyes find his in an indirect and elusive question but Bucky’s used to this kind of communication and can read any query in the form of a look or a raised eyebrow and shifts his shoulder incrementally in reply. He has no idea what Natasha is doing either.

Steve’s expression relaxes a little once he realises Bucky’s not trying to send him away and concedes to Natasha because he can’t say no when someone needs his help. Raenia, Sam and Steve join her though he could argue it’s inevitable that Steve is going to draw attention but he keeps his mouth shut instead.

He still doesn’t understand what Natasha is hoping to prove here. Probably never will. It’s chilly outside and Steve barely needs to wrap his arms around his elbows before Bucky is abandoning his coffee and standing up to grab one of his coats off of the hook by the door.

He tosses it in Steve’s direction without a word and ignores the way Natasha glances interestedly between them when Steve smiles in gratitude.

“See you soon,” Raenia says, unlocking the deadbolt.

“Wear gloves,” Bucky says automatically.

Steve’s eyebrows go high before he explodes into laughter.

“Should we understand the meaning of that?” Clint wonders.

“Another one of their inside jokes,” Sam mutters, rolling his eyes but he’s smiling at Steve’s expression as he chuckles. 

Steve laughing sure is a breathtaking sight, especially when he tips his head back, eyelashes fluttering shut and smiles. Bucky's chest tightens just looking at him.

“During the war,” he offers, faltering, unsure of whether or not Steve wants to talk about it. “There was-“

“Some uniform malfunctions in the middle of an attack on a Hydra base,” Steve finishes. “The Commandos laughed about it for days on end. I never lived it down.”

“What kind of uniform malfunction?” Raenia asks, extremely interested with the outcome.

Steve blushes red and turns his face away before he not so subtly edges out the front door, Bucky’s laughter trailing after him.

Tony presses for more details but he keeps his mouth shut out of loyalty. Steve had been embarrassed enough living it down the first time. The ‘wear gloves’ comment had come from Dum Dum afterwards and the rest of the Commandos had laughed uproariously. 

The saying had stuck, a reflex motto for whenever one of them went out into the snow to take a leek or before they invaded a new base.

Steve clearly hasn’t forgotten. Bucky smiles to himself, private and pleased and retakes his position on the floor. Thor is still sleeping on the couch and that leaves Tony to take the armchair and Banner and Clint to sit on the rug next to him.

“What was that all about?” Tony wonders once the rest of the group is out of the room.

“Breakfast,” Bucky replies unhelpfully.

“Wow, such wit,” he says. “No, handsome. I was actually referring to Natasha. Why is she trying to keep Steve away from you? Is there an ongoing lover’s quarrel that I’m not aware of? Don’t you play well with others?”

Bucky does his best not to react at the mention of lovers. It’s not like Tony is purposely rubbing it in his face, he has no idea of the scope of Bucky’s feelings for Steve. He doesn’t flush and drinks from his mug instead to gain more time to deliberate over the least interesting answer to give. 

Maybe Natasha somehow knows about his fears from last night and is only trying to help. It’s safer if he doesn’t think too deeply about it. Natasha’s schemes don’t always end well for those around her.

“Why don’t you ask Natasha?” he counters.

“Maybe I will.”

Clint digs for the remote behind Thor’s back and turns on the TV. He stops on a cooking show and they sit in silence for a few minutes. 

“You know I made a marksmen course,” Clint offers suddenly. “Back at the Tower. If you ever want to come over and give it a shot, I’m game.”

Bucky doesn’t respond straight away. The last time he held a gun it was when he was taking it from a man trying to mug him and Raenia. He’s not sure how he’ll feel to have a weapon like that in his hands again. It won’t make much difference.

The Winter Soldier was the weapon. Not the tools they armed him with.

Besides, Clint just wants to know who’s the better shot. His competitiveness doesn’t seem very encouraging and Bucky remembers what happened last time someone went up against him and tried to compare strengths. 

Thor was unconscious for five minutes.

He doesn’t know if doing this is a good idea. Or if he even wants to do it in the first place. But he was always an expert shot, even before the Winter Soldier, it was the only way he could cover the new super serum Steve and his frustratingly unprotected back.

“I’ll think about it.”

Clint seems satisfied with that reply for now.

Thor abruptly jerks awake behind them.

“Morning, Sparky,” Tony greets. “Heard you had a good night last night.”

“Aye,” Thor agrees, pushing his long hair out of his face before his gaze lands on Bucky. “You are looking well. Your shieldmate showed great concern for your state all throughout the evening.”

He remembers hearing that term last night and he thinks he might understand a little too easily exactly whom Thor is referring to.

“Right,” he says, not wanting to get into it, especially with Tony sitting two metres away.

“Wait,” Tony hedges, picking up on the avoidance anyway. “Does that mean what I think it means-?“

“They are shieldmates like that of Loki and I,” Thor explains without any amount of concern. “Did you not recognise the meaning of this? Have you no shieldmates on midgard?”

Clint only shrugs. “On earth we refer to it a little differently.”

“And we’re not,” Bucky asserts. “Steve and I aren’t- shieldmates.”

Tony puts his coffee down and takes off his sunglasses. “Oh c’mon, this is a safe share circle. Why don’t you just admit that you’re knocking boots?”

Bucky has an iron control over his anger and doesn’t allow any particularly revealing expression to show on his face. To Tony, he’d take that as a declaration and keep pressing.

“Because we’re not.”

“For all we know you’re the one who popped Captain America’s cherry.”

Bucky scowls at Tony but otherwise doesn’t react to the frighteningly accurate observation. He didn’t anticipate Tony could be so intuitive. Especially considering it's true. If Tony knew that, he’d never let them forget it and trying to figure out what’s going on between him and Steve is confusing enough without Tony’s input. 

“You seem unusually preoccupied with Steve’s sexual experiences. Care to explain why? You soft on him?”

Tony smirks. “I believe I’m what you fellas might call spoken for,” he points out and Bucky rolls his eyes. 

He knows about Pepper even if he’s never met her. There’s no way in hell that Tony would’ve trusted him with meeting her before, even less so now that he knows the things that Bucky’s done specifically to him.

“You are a little too invested,” Clint agrees. “Who cares who Steve’s getting hot and heavy with?”

“Steve Rogers guards his heart well,” Thor remarks with impressive sagacity.

“He’s not the only one,” Tony agrees, before waggling his eyebrows at Bucky in wordless invitation.

He snorts and snatches the remote from Clint in order to change the channel and ignore the question.

Tony’s much more persistent than Bucky would like to believe. “So, what? You don’t want to talk about your passionate love for Steve Rogers?”

Bucky grits his teeth. “Pass.”

“You’re no fun.”

“Pass.”

Clint snorts and snatches the remote back. Bucky decides it’s safer to focus on his coffee and brings it to his mouth instead.

When he woke up this morning he’d been a little nauseous but the feeling has already passed, body already finished processing the alien mead from last night. It’s a good advantage to the serum. No hangovers.

Sam, Raenia, Natasha and Steve return half an hour later and by then Bucky’s finished his coffee and disappeared into the shower to clean himself up. He’s shaking out his wet hair when they let themselves back in, Steve using his key to get inside.

The guys in the living room perk up immediately at the smell of hot food wafting through his apartment. He notices the embarrassed slump of Steve’s shoulders instantly.

“What happened?” he asks, frowning.

Sam smirks a little but otherwise doesn’t offer an explanation. That could mean a number of things.

“Steve got hit on,” Natasha helpfully explains. “And then he got all flustered.”

Bucky manages a forced but convincing smirk when everyone else expresses varying degrees of amusement. Tony laughs because he’s a dick. 

Steve tilts his head to the right, away from them which means he’s frustrated. “I was just trying to order breakfast. She caught me off guard.”

“It was pretty unprofessional,” Raenia agrees like the good sort she is and Steve looks thankful for the contribution.

“Can we eat already?” Clint wonders a little desperately. “I’m starving over here.”

They bring the multiple plastic bags filled with food over to the coffee table without bothering to get plates which he has no complaints about since it’s less clean up that way. The living room isn’t made to fit the Avengers and then some but somehow they make it work.

Steve ends up on his right like always and he wonders if he forgets sometimes like Bucky does, that Steve’s hearing in his right ear has drastically improved since the serum and he doesn’t need to stand by Steve’s left side anymore to be heard. Old habits die hard though and this is one they’ll probably never completely shake. Bucky doesn’t mind so much.

They’ve bought a frightening amount of bagel varieties with different spreads, mostly lox or cream cheese as well as breakfast burgers, waffles and sweet pastries. The most terrifying thing about the amount of food overflowing across his tiny coffee table is that Bucky knows that they’ll eat every last bite. 

Steve tosses a wrapped bagel in his direction without looking and Bucky snatches at it with ease, tearing off the wrapping only to realise Steve grabbed his favourite: a blueberry bagel with lemon flavoured cream cheese.

Bucky realises that’s not all when Steve tosses him a second one once he retrieves it from the pile. Luckily everybody is too distracted by the food to notice how touched he is by the simple gesture. It matters to him, a lot more than he should allow but this early in the morning surrounded by friends and Steve, he can’t find it in himself to care.

Steve settles in next to him once he’s grabbed himself a bacon and egg burger and presses his arm against Bucky’s to make more room for everybody else. It's not difficult to notice that there’s more than enough room for everyone by now and no real need for Steve to sit so close before he’s distracted by the fact that Steve’s still wearing his coat.

It looks good on him. Much too good if he’s being honest with himself. Bucky has to tip his head down to stop himself from being caught staring. He bites into his bagel with relish and refuses to act like there’s anything bothering him. 

Steve brings it up without Bucky’s prompting once everyone has finished eating and has spread out further.

“It’s just-“ he mutters, low and well out of earshot of everyone else. “I know if she’d ever seen me before the serum she would never have looked at me twice, you know?”

Bucky thinks he understands, though he can’t say he ever had the same kind of issues gaining attention in the Brooklyn days. That was mostly because he was smooth and charming enough to demand it, not like Steve had been.

He knows that Steve wants a deeper connection than something purely physical, something that goes beyond just liking him for his body but it’s hard for him to find anyone like that when that’s all they’re willing to see. Those are the types of shallow people who shouldn't even think about approaching Steve in the first place.

“You’ve got people here who see you for who you truly are,” Bucky replies just as quietly. “There’s more of them out there somewhere you’ve just gotta look for the right ones.”

Bucky could just as easily suggest himself as a candidate but Steve has already been pretty clear about his opinion on that and he needs to back off already. He can give his advice on this without being biased. He can. 

Steve scrunches up his face a little as if there’s more that he wanted to say about the subject. “That’s just the thing. What I’m trying to say is-“

“Why do you two always seem like you’re speaking your own secret language?” Tony interrupts, obnoxiously talking over him.

Steve blinks, pulling away from Bucky and putting distance between them in surprise. “Uh-“

“We don’t,” he argues, though sometimes that’s debatable.

“You kind of do sometimes,” Clint points out.

“This is true. Often I do not understand the language in which you speak,” Thor agrees.

“Because they were whispering,” Sam emphasises. “But those two are usually pretty secretive.”

“It’s not a secret,” Steve flounders, caught out and refusing to make eye contact with Bucky as if that makes him less guilty.

“Then why all the whispering?” Natasha teases, amused.

“This is how I always talk,” Bucky deadpans 

Sam snorts but Tony finally drops it, glancing suspiciously between them. Steve’s all innocence that Bucky doesn’t believe for a second but their friends are much easier to convince.

His mouth twitches minutely, repressing a smile as he turns back towards the TV. He doesn’t say that he’s loved Steve his whole life and whether he was a string bean or a big six never mattered much to him. What mattered was how much danger he could get himself into, whatever his size. 

If something is cherished enough, it’s magnificent in its own right. And Steve has always been a force of nature to him.

But Bucky keeps that information to himself.

He knows Steve’s better off not hearing it.

 

  
  


 

Avoiding Chad and Todd is nothing short of impossible, even in the last week of his self-defence course.

It’s sadder than he’d predicted saying goodbye to his Monday class and most of them have already signed up for the new session that starts up in the next month. The nostalgia and sadness at seeing them all go is a little unexpected. Some of them ask for his number to keep in contact but policy is strict on exchanging personal details so he's forced to say no.

It’s a good thing the Institute doesn’t know how close his friendship is with Raenia. He could probably get fired over that, or at the very least a hefty slap on the wrist for being so unprofessional.

Bucky doesn’t admit to his students that he hasn’t signed on for teaching anything further with the Institute or that he’s reconsidering the job. Working with Chad and Todd is nearly unbearable and he doesn’t like all of their attention now that they know who he associates with. If he had enough money he’d open up his own self-defence program but Jay Reiser had barely any cash to get by and James Buchanan Barnes is no better.

That still doesn’t mean he’s willing to suffer working under Chad and Todd for another year.

“Seen any Avengers lately?” Chad wonders after he sticks his head into Bucky’s classroom before he’s quick enough to pack up and leave.

He doesn’t allow his body to show any tension at the question. 

“No,” he says, though the Avengers hadn’t left his apartment yesterday until well into the evening and he’s heading over to the Tower after work to grab Raenia and anybody else who’s free for dinner.

Steve’s meeting him a block away from the Institute after the session is over.

Chad is not deterred and neither is Todd when he peers over his shoulder a second later as if expecting a superhero to suddenly appear in Bucky’s classroom. Todd rests his hand on Chad's shoulder as he scans the empty room alertly. 

“You should reconsider inviting them over to the Institute,” Chad presses because he’s an absolute dickface and doesn’t respect the fact that no means no. “You might regret it.”

“I doubt it,” Bucky replies, finally finished clearing everything away. He grabs his duffel bag and heads towards the door and freedom. “See you guys tomorrow.”

“Yeah, see ya.”

His frown doesn’t even out until he’s spotting Steve three minutes later, all smiles at the sight of him, leaning against a building at the intersection of West 67th Street and Central Park West.

After that he stops worrying about Chad and Todd. Hopefully they won’t be a problem for much longer.

“Hey Steve,” he says, playing with the fingers of his metal hand, feeling the false skin there when they're walking towards the Tower. “Do you think- you could tell me about Rebecca’s funeral? Was it a nice service?”

“Of course, Buck,“ Steve whispers, softly, instantly serious. “Course it was. The weather was the berries and her kids were there, all grown up now but her fella-“

“Died two years ago didn’t he?” he finishes, remembering.

“Yeah he did,” Steve says. “Her kids were real nice though. You liked them a lot. Not much family to turn up on your side but lots of Proctors and plenty of friends. They figured out how to put some photos up on the wall-“

“A projector,” Bucky explains wryly, always a little bemused that living as the Winter Soldier and Jay Reiser has made him much more well versed in technology than Steve. 

“Yeah, that and they had so many photos. Some of you two together as kids before she got sent off to boarding school.”

“I wish I could remember it,” he says, honestly.

Steve reaches out to grip his shoulder like Bucky’s done to him so many times. “Maybe you will. They doctors always said it wouldn’t be permanent.”

They walk in silence through Central Park for a moment. 

“Oh,” Steve says suddenly, reaching behind himself to pull out his wallet. “Hold on, I have a photo right here.”

Bucky frowns, puzzled as Steve gently removes the photo from the wallet casing to reveal it to him.

It’s a recent picture which he can tell by the fact that it’s in colour and that Bucky has his arms around an old woman. He needs to look closer but eventually he can see the familiarity in her face, the laugh lines kissing her eyes and that is definitely his sister.

Bucky’s own smile is wide and wild with happiness and this must’ve been the day that he finally reunited with Rebecca for the first time since the war. It’s a great photo. They look nearly idiotic with their happiness.

He touches the image for longer than necessary before handing it back to Steve, to watch the delicate way he reinserts it into his wallet, so that it’s the first picture that can be seen. Steve doesn’t have pictures of anyone else. Not even the one of Peggy he carried around for most of the war.

He has so many questions but none of them will bring the answer he wants.

“Thank you,” he manages, heart full and hurting at the cruelty of time and how viciously it passes.

 

  
  


 

Raenia’s still busy with Tony and Banner so they head toward the training room to find Clint and Natasha and see how they're fairing. Sam’s there as well in the middle of a gruelling fight with Natasha.

He ends up face down on the mat more times than Bucky cares to count but it’s still pretty entertaining to watch. Sam gets in a few good strikes as well and he sees how Natasha has to drastically compensate for how light he is on his feet. Must be from all of the flying.

They draw to a close eventually, panting hard on the mat and grinning at each other before Natasha flips lithely onto the balls of her feet and beckons to them.

“Alright who’s next?”

Bucky hasn’t actually fought someone for a very long time. He’s been carefully demonstrating moves and stances but hasn’t actually engaged anybody in a fight since he’s been Jay Reiser. It's been a while.

Steve heads over to the mat with a determined set to his jaw but Sam’s already slinking away at the sight of him.

“Oh hell no,” he mutters. “I’ve already learned that lesson.”

“Have you?” Bucky wonders, amused, and raising an eyebrow.

“What about you?” Natasha wonders staring at him, challenge in her curled fingers.

“I don’t know. I’m probably pretty rusty.”

She throws an unsolicited punch into his gut but he twists away from her before it connects with a speed he only unleashes during his morning runs. Steve is grinning at him when he stops, eyes shuttered and heavy at the sight.

“Rude,” Bucky mutters, but he’s not offended.

Or surprised.

“Why don’t you go up against Steve then?” she suggests. “I’m sure he’s much more polite.”

Bucky laughs because she couldn’t be more wrong about that. Steve clenches his fists together but he’s interested, Bucky can tell. He’ll never turn away from a fight. The playful expression on his face is something he should be afraid of, if he was smart.

It would be remiss to discount his reaction the last time Steve used full bodied contact against him in a class full of his students. Unintentionally, but still. He can’t guarantee that this won’t provoke the same kind of reaction. One that Natasha will see a mile away.

He is not practised in the art of hiding these kind of feelings from Steve. Growing up he hadn’t even allowed the idea to form into a distinctive thought, avoided such a realisation diligently. That didn’t mean his amorphous feelings didn’t carry their own weight around Steve sometimes especially during the war when there were dames about. Beautiful, clever British dames named Peggy Carter.

This is probably a bad idea.

But then Steve’s slanting this enthusiastic, exultant look his way and asking, “You wanna?”

And Bucky can’t find it in him to think of enough reasons to say no.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he checks, voice low and only for Steve as he steps closer. “The last time-“

“You thought you were trying to kill me,” Steve finishes.

His mouth quirks. “I _thought_ I was trying to kill you?” he repeats, bemused.

Steve’s smile is soft and entirely unfair. “You didn’t finish it. You wouldn’t have. But if you’re not comfortable-“

Bucky doesn’t know what to do with that kind of trust. “No, that’s- okay. Let’s do this.”

“This can only end well,” Sam mutters, panting a little as he moves toward the wall where he left his water bottle and starts guzzling to rehydrate.

“Shut up,” Bucky says and centres his body in preparation for a fight.

Steve doesn’t make the first move because he never does, it’s everybody else who’s throwing that first punch. So Bucky doesn’t disappoint. And neither does Steve.

It might have been a while since he’s engaged in hand to hand combat but he is just as deadly as he’s always been and Steve’s technique scrambles to catch up with him.

There’s no real strength behind his strikes, just glancing blows but Steve reorients himself easily, adapting to Bucky’s attack and suddenly it isn’t as simple as he’d imagined. Less so since he’s training with a super serum soldier who has no concept of giving up and the energy supply to keep him from doing so.

But Bucky’s got a serum flowing in his veins too.

Close combat fighting is usually, quick, direct and dirty, over within the first few minutes because bodies can’t exert themselves so rapidly and expeditiously without tiring and losing precision. 

He and Steve don’t really have that problem. And they also have the added advantage of knowing each other their whole lives and knowing how each other operates. Bucky’s techniques might have become more controlled and vicious after his stint as the Winter Soldier but Steve still knows how his body works. How it moves.

Bucky’s just as familiar with Steve’s and how some of his technique closely resembles some of Peggy Carter’s fighting skill. Steve is fluid on his feet and just as breathtaking in the way he moves and pivots away from Bucky's strikes. He doesn’t use his metal arm at all except as a shield against Steve’s fists when they get too close under his guard.

The world whirls around them in a violent dance but Bucky doesn’t take his eyes off of Steve for a second as they weave together, striking and dodging and never stepping further than a metre from one another.

Steve’s chest is heaving almost as much as Bucky’s when Bucky finally slips under his reach and tackles him to the ground nearly fifteen minutes later. Steve goes down soundly but Bucky’s already pinned both of his arms and legs before they’ve even hit the mat.

He cautiously checks Steve’s expression to gauge his reaction but Steve is only impressed and smiling widely at him, showing teeth. He flexes his wrists beneath Bucky’s hold and sputters a soft noise of surprise when the pressure doesn’t give.

“You done?” Bucky wonders, extremely smug all of a sudden.

Steve’s mouth is red and his cheeks are flushed with exertion and Bucky wishes he’d never kissed him. That way he wouldn’t be able to feel the loss of it and know what he’s missing out on right now. Steve grunts a little but his eyes are sharp.

“I could do this all day.”

He lets go then with a strangled laugh before dropping his forehead against Steve’s chest because he can’t help himself and he wants to breathe him in. Someone shifts their weight a second later and he's reminded they’re not alone in this training room. Everyone is watching the sudden intimate gesture and they're not as obtuse about it as Steve clearly is. They know what exactly what it means. 

He climbs off of Steve quickly, avoiding his eyes. He extends his hand to help him up a second later, breathing heavily. 

Steve’s panting a little as well but he accepts it.

They trudge over to the group awaiting them and Bucky spots Raenia amongst the small crowd. At the sight of her wide eyes he feels his gut clench. He hadn’t meant for her to see this. The monstrous ferocity and power that his body houses within at every given moment no matter what he pretends.

He didn’t want her to fear him more than she already did.

“Damn,” Natasha mutters and the awe in her voice is genuine and unusually observable. “That was-“

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, overwhelmed. “I didn’t know you could do that.”

Steve glances at Bucky and he’s just as confused. “What? You’ve seen me fight.”

Sam is already shaking his head. “Not like that. That was something else.”

Steve looks to Bucky for some further clarification but his body feels loose and warm after the rapid workout and he really can’t think of Sam’s meaning either. So he just shrugs and refocuses his gaze on Raenia. She’s still looking at him critically as if she’s trying to understand him inside and out and he gestures for her to talk privately several steps away.

She moves but her expression is still strangely stilted as they leave the others to their conversation.

“I’ve never seen you like that before,” she mutters, body tense.

“I’m sorry,” he says carefully and measuredly, keeping a noticeable distance between their bodies. “Did it frighten you?”

Raenia’s mouth curves wryly. “It wasn’t that kind of fight.”

Bucky doesn’t think he follows her meaning. “Then what kind of fight was it?”

She only pats his metal arm gently as if it’s not her place to explain the nature of close combat fighting to him. “Oh, Bucky. That wasn’t really a fight at all.”

And she moves back towards the others before he can ask any more questions.

 

  
  


 

Once Raenia’s ready they volunteer Bucky to check in and see if Tony’s interested in joining them for dinner as well.

Bucky hasn’t been to the lab in a while and it’s changed pretty drastically since then. It was never exactly that clean but now it’s overrun with varying parts and splays of metal and he’s not sure where he should be looking. Or stepping.

“Hey, uh, Tony?” he calls into the open space before he spots him bent over some kind of vaguely round shape.

“Yes, you’ve caught me tinkering,” Tony answers, turning with protective goggles on his face. “Watch a master at work.”

“I’m good,” he mutters, stepping cautiously closer. 

“How you wound me,” Tony replies without any heat. “You better have interrupted me for an impressive reason. Is it the aliens again? The president wants me to save the world? Don’t tell me, Steve finally saw my true skills and decided that I should be the leader of the Avengers.”

“The last one for sure,” Bucky deadpans. “We’re getting dinner. You in?”

Tony thinks for a second and puts the tools in his hands down, removing his gloves. “Dinner’s a close second. Give me a sec-”

He hears the clack of heels before the scent of warm perfume reaches his nose. “Hey Tony-“

And suddenly there’s a woman striding into the lab.

Bucky knows who she is immediately. Pepper Potts. The very same Pepper who he’s never met before because Tony very vehemently _does not trust him_. Tony tenses and Bucky backs up instantly, shifting so that his metal arm is behind his back even if he still wears the false skin and it shouldn’t reveal anything. He's still trying to appear like less of a threat anyway. 

Pepper follows the movement with sharp observant eyes.

“Hello,” she says, oddly gentle considering what she must know about him. She glances at Tony. “Is this-?”

“James Barnes, Steve’s main squeeze,” Tony supplies, climbing to his feet. “Watch out, he hurts feelings.”

Bucky doesn’t flinch at the warning but it’s a close call. Pepper only smiles and rolls her eyes at Tony’s words.

“Anybody who doesn’t agree with you hurts your feelings, honey,” Pepper says and Tony strides forward to kiss her cheek hello, wiping at his hands with a rag.

When he pulls away his smirk is the softest that Bucky has ever seen it before. “You do understand my suffering.”

“It’s Bucky,” he corrects, recovering. “And I’m not Steve’s main squeeze.”

Pepper is politely amused. “I’m surprised you understood the reference.”

“Oh no. He’s not like Steve,” Tony explains. “He’s lived in the 21st century much longer than Capsicle and I’m having it put on the record right now that I am dubious of the nature of their relationship.”

Bucky frowns as Tony leans towards Pepper again, all conspiratorial but loud enough to be heard. “I watched them spar on the monitor earlier. You should’ve seen them, Pep. It was some elaborate super soldier-mating dance. So in sync. It was nauseatingly precious.”

His fingers curl into fists but he doesn’t rise to the bait. “You guys have plans,” he mutters. “I’ll leave you to it.”

“No, we don’t,” Tony says to his surprise. “Pep, have you eaten? Because we’re going to dinner.”

Pepper glances at Bucky and she is obviously as confused by this sudden change of heart. “Works for me.”

Bucky doesn’t wait for them because he has a feeling they’re about to get swept up in each other as if they weren’t already and heads back down to the training room instead. He’s distracted by Tony’s obnoxious observation but he’s starting to think that’s the impression everybody else got from their training session as well.

He was too obvious with his feelings this time and it caught everyone’s attention. It’s a small miracle that Steve didn’t pick up on it. He’s distracted when he enters the room, so much that he’s only distantly aware of someone approaching his left. He flinches away from the hand extending for him and sees Steve jolt before he hastily withdraws.

“Did- did you talk to Tony?” he wonders, hesitantly as if he’s the one who’s done something wrong.

Bucky can’t handle that right now. “Yeah, he’s bringing Pepper.”

Steve is understandably stupefied. “You met Pepper?”

Sam’s joining them already, somehow sensing that something’s up. “That’s a good thing right?” he says. “Tony wouldn’t have let Bucky near her if he didn’t at least trust him.”

“Don’t spare my feelings,” Bucky snarks.

He not exactly wrong though. Sam pats him on the back but it’s heavy enough to be punishing rather than consoling. He’s not doing any favours. Pepper appears in the doorway a second later with Tony hurrying after her and any further questions they plan on asking will have to be tabled for a later time.

“Are we going or what?” Tony demands, sidestepping Pepper to peer at the rest of the training room.

“Why do I have to keep reminding everybody that they’re famous superheroes who will immediately attract attention if they decide to go out for dinner on the town?" Raenia grumbles. "You guys do remember that, right?”

“Those last two restaurants we went to didn’t,” Clint argues. “Nobody even noticed us.”

Raenia only sighs heavily. “How many autographs did you sign, Steve?”

Steve is surprised to be the centre of attention all of a sudden and scratches at the back of his neck, his signature nervous tell. “Oh, I don’t know- eleven?”

“Twelve,” Bucky corrects. “You’re forgetting the fella who chased after us down Ninth Avenue when we stopped for coffee after.”

“Oh,” Steve says, colouring. “Well it’s not a problem. I’m happy to talk to anybody who’s willing to talk to me.”

“But not over the meal you’re eating with friends. You’ve got to have some boundaries, Steve,” Natasha points out.

“I have two questions,” Tony says. “Firstly, why is nobody asking for my autograph I’m literally the coolest person in this group, don’t deny it. I fly a metal robot man, I should have a swarm of fans that put Cap’s fans to shame. Also, secondly, less of a question and more of a statement but I just called ahead and booked a restaurant.”

“What restaurant?” Raenia asks, suspicious.

“He’s being dramatic,” Pepper explains. “It’s best just to let him build the suspense in his own time.”

“I resent that level of saltiness coming from my boo,” Tony says as Pepper smirks, unperturbed. “But no, see, I’ve solved everyone’s problems, like always, because I booked a restaurant.”

“Sure, Tony,” Steve says patiently. “You’ve said that twice now but I don’t-“

“I booked the _entire_ restaurant,” Tony declares, winking at Bucky who feels like of all the people in this room he should be the last person being winked at.

“How much-“ Bucky and Steve begin to ask in the exact same moment before Tony waves them into silence.

“You two are genetically modified killjoys. Would it kill you to relax? C’mon de-thaw a little.”

Bucky scowls as Steve lips draw thin but he brought a spare change of clothes in the duffel bag that he takes to the Institute for sessions so he heads off towards the men’s room to shower and get dressed. Steve leaves to do the same, though he looks as if he’d like to clock Tony just as much. They don't take long though but since Tony booked the entire restaurant there's no rush to get there on time.

When he returns, hair wet, Natasha, Clint and Steve are waiting for him and they’ve all changed into clothes more suitable for walking about in cold weather.

They meet Raenia, Tony and Pepper outside and he’s already called a Limo for himself and a cab for the rest of them.

Bucky glances at the yellow taxi and mentally arranges all of their bodies to fit.

“How far is this restaurant?” he wonders, thinking it might be easier to walk there.

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, taking a step towards him. “Me and Buck will-“

Bucky reacts almost a second too late, shoving Steve hard in the chest with the force and strength of his metal arm so that he staggers back several steps with a grunt of surprise, nearly losing his footing. Thor lands out of the sky in the very same spot Steve was standing a moment ago, smiling somewhat sheepishly at the close call.

“Oh,” Raenia says faintly. “I did wonder where he was.”

“I am here, Lady Raenia,” Thor declares kindly. “Do you have a task for me?”

She seems somewhat alarmed by the idea of a god offering her his assistance and shakes her head. “No. We’re going to dinner.”

“Perfect. Should I enter the hideous yellow atrocity that you midgardians label a vehicle?”

“Please,” Raenia says, bemused when Thor opens the door for her.

Clint climbs into the passenger seat, Natasha following after Thor.

“The restaurant is far,” Tony tells them, no longer distracted. “Don’t get any ideas about strolling down lover’s lane.”

“Tony-” Steve starts but Tony only throws up a peace sign and climbs elegantly into his limo without looking back.

Pepper hesitates before following after him. 

“He’s such a jerk,” she says as if she’s agreeing with their unspoken thoughts but it doesn’t count because she sounds much too fond as she does so.

She smiles and then smiles wider when Steve holds the door for her so she can climb inside.

Tony’s voice travels out of the limo. “Where’s my protégé?”

“In the hideous yellow atrocity,” Bucky calls back. “And don’t pretend she’s not already mentoring you.”

He slams the limo door if only to put the point across more succinctly but he doubts it will deter Tony for long.

Steve’s standing back at his side again but he’s smiling now. 

“And you," Bucky says. "I thought Erskine was supposed to improve your eyesight?”

The lecture seems to work because Steve presses his lips together as if he’s not sure whether to laugh or be affronted. “I was distracted, Buck, give me a break.”

“Distracted by what?”

The buzz of the tinted limo window rolling down interrupts them. “Sergeant Barnes’ ass,” Tony yells out loudly and obnoxiously before the limo pulls away from the curb to smoothly enter the traffic.

Bucky grunts and tactfully defers from pursuing that line of questioning, heading over toward the taxi instead. Natasha’s eyes are alight with opportunity and Steve is still sputtering incoherently behind him. If he turns back, he’s certain that Steve will be flushing.

He can feel an incipient situation emerging.

“Do we even know where we’re supposed to be going?” he asks her, if at least to avoid Tony’s unwanted statement.

Natasha’s grinning at him with much more delight than usual which can only mean she overheard Tony’s attempt to embarrass them.

“I know where we’re going,” she says, cryptically and Thor is a sight sandwiched between the two women in the back but he seems to be having a good time.

The thing about Thor is no matter the occasion, he’s always generally having a good time. Bucky could learn a thing or two from that kind of mindset.

“There isn’t enough room for all of us,” Steve acknowledges, recovering his composure as he leans over Bucky’s shoulder to peer into the taxi.

He doesn’t tense at the close contact but the urge to turn his face toward Steve, let his eyes fall shut and breathe in the space there is strong. He pushes that extraneous thought from his mind.

“Probably why Tony called _two_ taxis,” Clint observes, voice muffled from inside the car as he points at the second taxi behind them.

Steve pulls back and Bucky shuts Natasha’s door before jogging after him to catch up. The driver already seems to know where they’re going because he doesn’t ask questions after they’ve arranged themselves in the back. Bucky can’t help but notice the heat of Steve’s thigh slotted up against his when there’s plenty of room that should be between them if he wasn’t so determined to avulse his heart from his chest and crush it.

“Don’t worry about Tony,” Bucky volunteers when Steve is clearly off in his head thinking about it. “He’s a pill.”

“He’s also paying for this whole thing tonight,” Steve offers pointedly as if he’s intending for Bucky to make nice.

Good luck to him.

“He’s still a pill though.”

Steve’s mouth twitches and if he had to guess he’d say that Steve is in silent agreement of the fact.

That suits him fine.

Bucky hopes that Tony’s ego hasn’t gotten involved with tonight’s proceedings because he’s not sure he can mix making a good impression on Pepper and convincing them that she’s not in any danger from him with over the top extravagance of the evening constantly putting him off his game.

He knows ostentatious wealth makes Steve just as uncomfortable when they’ve grown up on rations and wartime and making the best of whatever came their way. They’re used to mud and trenches, rocks and stone cold ground for beds and in better times a thin well worn mattress just enough for two.

They don’t know what to do with all these theatrical and lavish dealings.

 

  
  


 

The food is delicious though not worth the amount of cash Tony probably forked out over it. The staff are unfailingly professional, almost to the point of being irritating and not once do they acknowledge that they’re serving a team of rowdy superheroes. Nobody even asks for an autograph. Steve looks so relaxed and happy that Bucky’s floating on air for the rest of the night at the sight of him.

The staff even clear a space for dancing and they’ve got their own mini orchestra playing music in the background. Tony is the first to go, holding out a hand for Pepper who accepts and they both seem equally impressive as they take to the dance floor. Wealth looks good on them or perhaps they just know how to wear it right.

Thor asks Raenia next and she accepts with a pleased smile that she doesn’t show very often and Bucky’s glad that she trusts the rest of the team enough now to feel comfortable touching them. Thor is a surprisingly good dancer and even with Raenia’s height she’s still looks overshadowed by his muscles.

Sam asks Natasha with a hint of suave and confidence that they don’t get to see very often and Bucky’s grinning behind his hair when she accepts though she probably still catches him doing it. Clint seems happy to stick his feet up on the chair next to him and get started on dessert but he’s smiling at them as he watches them dance.

Bucky glances at Steve out of the corner of his eye and his expression is soft and amused as his fingers drum along to the beat. He knows he could ask him to dance but he’d rather not push things at the moment. These feelings have made him uncertain enough of what kind of behaviour is acceptable for a friend and what isn’t.

Of course, it’s Tony who blunders through that careful restraint.

“You old timers got some moves or what?” he demands when he and Pepper twirl by close enough to be within earshot.

Bucky doesn’t admit that he can hear their conversation just fine across the other side of the room. That would be rude.

He notes the way Steve is moving his feet, that same look on his face from when they were younger and he wanted to dance but nobody wanted to when he asked them. Granted half of the dames he asked were at least a head taller than him and didn’t want to look foolish. Bucky would’ve danced with him a million times over just to keep him close.

It’s not much of a decision, really. Bucky couldn’t say no if he tried. He stands up, chair scrapping loudly and Steve glances over in surprise.

“Prepare to eat you words, Stark,” he teases, holding out a hand to Steve politely. “Wanna dance, Stevie?”

Steve’s expression is bemused and a little taken aback but he slips his hand into Bucky’s anyway.

“You know I got two left feet,” he mutters after he stands up as well but he allows Bucky to lead him onto the dance floor.

“Well good thing I got two right ones,” he shoots back, easy and unperturbed.

Steve laughs and stops worrying about it. His hand is warm and sure and Bucky leads them into a waltz that he knows he didn’t learn himself.

He doesn’t mention it cause it doesn’t have a place here, not in his head or his heart any longer and he’s not gonna let it dampen his happiness now. Steve knows how to follow and he’s a quick learner, he only steps on Bucky’s foot once and they laugh the entire time, unembarrassed.

Tony flicks the back of Steve’s head as they whirl past and then Pepper intentionally steps on his foot in punishment and it’s all very fun. Bucky tries not to think about how easily they move together even when Steve tries to twirl Bucky under his arm.

He laughs and they manage to do it in one seamless movement that definitely would put Tony to shame if he was even watching them anymore. Bucky lets himself get swept up in the moment and doesn’t take his hands off Steve as they move together, familiar and easy as they’ve always been, even with the freshness of their first dance.

Bucky twirls Steve next and grins wide when he laughs, undaunted and delighted and free.

 

  
  


 

“Alright, strip poker. Let’s go,” Tony says once they’re back at the Tower, well fed and had enough to drink.

Steve and Bucky are arguably the only sober ones in the group. And Raenia.

She waves a heavily callused hand, unconvinced. “No thanks.”

Everyone else is infinitely more interested judging by the raised eyebrows and excessive smirking. 

“Trust me,” Steve says, solemnly and Bucky has to fight the urge to laugh because Steve’s always been a live wire. “You don’t want that.”

Tony mistakes the comment for something other than the warning that it is and winks in an overly lecherous way. “You scared, Popsicle?”

Bucky grins. “Alright, we tried, Steve. Let’s just play.”

They share a look where Steve seemingly tries to remind him that he’s got an eidetic memory and just how well a combination of that and Bucky’s poker face allowed them to count cards back in the forties, but he bares his teeth in a shit eating smile and then Steve’s in. Just like that.

“I don’t like the way they’re looking at each other,” Sam says, proving once again he is more intuitive than others give him credit for. “I’m out of this one.”

“Oh c’mon, party pooper,” Clint says, slinging an arm across his shoulder. “You know we all wanna see your butt.”

Natasha smacks the back of Clint’s head but Bucky notices how she carefully tilts her face down, hair spilling forward to hide her eyes and most of her reaction from view. Perhaps Sam isn’t fighting a losing battle with his interest in her after all.

“I second that,” Tony says. “Pepper’s mentioned it on multiple occasions.”

“God, Tony,” she cries. “I have not. Besides Thor’s got the best ass.”

Pepper smiles beautifully at Tony’s sudden betrayed expression.

“Ah, at last,” Thor grins, confidently. “The Lady Pepper talks sense.”

Steve’s ears are turning red and Bucky just knows he’s got something he’s trying not to say and instantly wants to know what it is. When Steve catches him looking he swallows and rubs at his eyes to avoid eye contact and Bucky wants to laugh at wondering exactly whose ass he was thinking of just now.

Probably Tony’s. Or Natasha’s.

“Here’s hoping Texas Hold‘em is a skill you never picked up on Asgard,” Tony mutters, smirking as he leads them back into the communal den.

Steve glances oh so subtly at Bucky and in that sparing second they’ve concocted a game plan. Steve’s mouth quirks up slightly but otherwise doesn’t react or show any other physical signs of communicating with him. They’ve perfected this art, living together for years, fighting together and understanding each other’s thoughts perfectly. 

Well, almost all of them.

Tony’s _really_ going to regret this.

He does twenty minutes later when he’s sitting in his designer underwear and drinking scotch like he can’t believe he arrived at this point in his life.

The rest of the Avengers are no better. Natasha came out on top. She’s still got her pants on and a bra. Steve was nice enough to stop when each of them got down to their underwear.

Steve’s fully clothed and looking utterly ridiculously amongst the scantily clad group and Bucky didn’t even lose his socks.

They burst out into laughter at the equally astonished expressions on their friend’s faces. Clearly they hadn’t expected this outcome. Except for Sam of course who’s sitting in the corner, arms folded smugly with Raenia rolling her eyes beside him.

“He tried to warn you,” Bucky can’t help but point out after he’s stopped chuckling and taken a few deep breaths. 

His stomach is starting to ache from cackling so hard. It’s been a while since they’ve pulled the rug out from under somebody like this. The Commandos got wise to their tricks pretty quickly.

Though it did take longer for them to realise that Steve was cheating at cards too. It’s his face, Bucky thinks, not as much the uniform as people like to believe that always leaves him looking so innocent.

The round of unimpressed expressions bring out another scattering of laughter from the both of them. 

Nobody wants to play cards with them after that.

 

  
  


 

Steve’s on assignment the next day and Bucky’s not expecting him back so soon when he heads over to the Tower to pick Raenia up for dinner. She said that she’d be ready for him in the lobby but she wasn’t and Bucky takes the stairwell up to the main common room to find her.  


“Hey,” he says when he catches sight of Raenia sitting at the table island. “We getting dinner or-?”

He catches sight of Steve a second later and his words dry up. Not only because he’s surprised to see him back so soon but also because of what he’s wearing.

He’s still in the Captain America suit. Steve usually isn’t wearing it when he comes to visit Bucky after he gets home and the sight of it after so long completely floors him for a second. He hasn’t been this close to Steve in uniform since before he became Jay Reiser and the less than innocent dreams he’s had since featuring Steve in that uniform is not helping things.

He fumbles to think of the right thing to say when Steve smiles at the sight of him, gaze open and expectant but nothing comes to mind. Except retreat.

“I gotta go,” he says abruptly without any suave or subtlety, turning on his heel and walking straight back out the way he’d come.

He can feel the confusion as he hurries away and can’t deal with any questions right now not when his heart is beating so fast and the temperature of his skin has increased. It’s a small miracle that he didn’t react any further than that. An erection would have be entirely too obvious and much too inconvenient to explain.

Raenia catches up with him in the stairwell because she knows how he operates. “The uniform?” she calls out when she’s within hearing distance and Bucky pauses to wait for her.

“The uniform,” he agrees darkly and they head down to the lobby together.

He waits until they’re outside and in the brisk air of New York settling into evening to ask. “Was it obvious?”

Raenia’s smile is patient but also supportive enough that he feels comfortable asking these kinds of questions. “Not to him.”

Steve catches up with them two blocks later and he’s slipped into something else by then and only a little out of breath considering he must’ve ran the whole way to join them.

“Hey,” he greets Bucky when he reaches him and places a hand on his shoulder. “You alright? Mind if I join the both of you for dinner?”

Bucky’s lost for a moment in the disarray of Steve’s hair, probably from yanking off the uniform so quickly. “Uh, yeah. I’m good.”

“Yeah, join us,” Raenia says, once she’s sure Bucky’s okay with it. “We’re heading out to Fig & Olive on East fifty second street.”

“Sounds perfect,” Steve agrees and doesn’t remove his hand from its perch on Bucky’s shoulder as if he’s forgotten about it altogether. 

He’s much less disturbed now that he’s certain Bucky’s all right and is fine with letting him tag along on their dinner plans. Bucky will be fine as long as he stops thinking about Steve in that goddamn suit that he’s had more than one wet dream about.

It’s harder than it seems.

 

  
  


 

“Okay, Capsicle. You and me right now,” Tony says, a day later slamming down a tablet on the table in front of them. 

Bucky blinks at the screen and glances up at Tony, mid sip of his mug, no expression. They’re waiting to take Raenia back to her apartment to see how the repairs are doing but she disappeared a minute ago in order to grab her purse first.

Steve puts down his mug and at least attempts to be civil. Bucky can’t ignore the fact that those are fighting words. This better not turn into another superhero prowess pissing contest.

“You know how to use this right?” Tony demands and oh, Bucky sees where this is going.

Steve frowns a little, lips pursing which isn’t exactly a no but isn’t quite a yes either. Steve’s 21st integration could still use some work.

“I have an idea.”

“You have an idea,” Tony repeats. “Oh wonderful. So if our lives boiled down to you using this to save all of humanity, humanity would die. That’s comforting.”

Tony’s pushing all the wrong buttons again. Like always. Steve’s eyes go dark.

“I know how to use it, Tony.”

“So prove it. Google yourself.”

The uprising technology conflict has drawn a crowd by now. Clint pads out of the kitchen to observe and Banner strolls over in the midst of cleaning his glasses before sliding them back onto his face evidently with some kind of intellectual investment in the proceedings.

“I don’t think you save humanity through Internet browsing, Tony,” Banner says, fairly as his eyes glide carefully over them. “Steve’s doing his best.”

That’s the wrong button to push too. Steve only grits his teeth. “I can Google,” he mutters and gingerly accepts the tablet as if he’s about to diffuse a bomb.

Bucky, very pointedly puts his coffee mug down onto the table and doesn’t speak. 

Steve hesitates only a little to open the browser because he’s still a slow typist but he writes out the website into the new tab and searches for his name in Google. Tony’s watching the entire thing and is almost disappointed when Steve hands the tablet back after clicking the top search, which unfortunately happens to be more speculation that his absence in the public is an undeclared confirmation that he’s shacking up with the Winter Soldier. 

The speculation of enemy crossed lovers seems wildly unfair.

Bucky glances at the headline and looks away, grimacing.

“This did not go as planned,” Tony deliberates. “I saw you fiddling around with this on the monitors yesterday and you had no idea what-“

He glances between the two of them and Bucky meets his gaze squarely without guilt or concern. He can still see that the lights are on upstairs and witnesses the exact moment that it clicks for Tony. 

Unfortunately. 

Steve sighs.

“Jarvis,” he calls, hardly daring to believe it. “Did Steve just blatantly cheat my 21st Century test?”

“Mr Rogers and Mr Barnes possess an array of subtle movements and cues that enable them to communicate at the fullest extent.”

“Bucky _told_ you how to do that?” Clint demands, impressed. “He didn’t even say anything.”

“Hmm,” Banner says, clearly interested before the kettle finishes boiling and he retreats to collect his tea in order to disappear back into his lab again.

Tony’s already on his feet. “Everybody,” he shouts. “Barnes and Rogers are so married they silently communicate. They can never be trusted again.”

“I think you’re exaggerating, Tony,” Steve calls after him, shifting an apologetic look in Bucky’s direction before rising to his feet and trying to follow. “Now hold on-“

They disappear down the hallway, Tony’s distant shouts echoing all over the tower to announce this new information and Bucky sighs and picks up his mug again.

“But seriously,” Clint says a second later, utterly serious. “Are you married?”

Bucky manages to swallow his mouthful calmly. “No. I’m pushing a hundred and nearly half of those years me and Steve have been together. We know each other, that’s all.”

“I don’t know anybody like that,” Clint argues. “Maybe Nat. But it’s more like she’s reading me and less like we’re reading each other. Not having silent conversations with our eyes.”

Bucky shrugs and buries himself in his mug again. It’s not a good idea for him to talk about this. It’s probably not very kind to Steve to go around blurting out to his friends about all of his messy feelings about him. 

This is complicated enough.

“Why is Tony yelling about everyone staying away from you and Steve?” Raenia wonders, walking into the room, bag in hand.

“They have a psychic connection,” Clint explains with exaggerated mystery, unfurling onto the couch a metre from Bucky and landing hard enough that the shock of it passes through the cushions. “They can have secret conversations without talking.”

Raenia raises an eyebrow and sits on Bucky’s other side. “And why is Tony trying to say they can’t be trusted?”

“His ego is still hurting from that card game,” Bucky points out, maybe a little unfairly with a badly concealed smile.

“I suppose that’s vaguely makes sense,” she says, thoughtfully. “I think everyone was surprised. I didn’t think Captain America was capable of dishonesty.”

The frown comes much too quickly. “Steve’s human, he’s capable of anything. And we were fighting in war. What did you think we were doing?”

“Maybe it’s the uniform,” she muses, unfazed. “That makes him seem more trustworthy.”

“It’s not that,” he says, somewhat strangled by the suggestion. She knows exactly what kind of reaction Steve’s uniform provokes. “It’s his face. People trust that face. It’s gotten me out of more scrapes than I can count.”

Clint is evidently bemused by this. “I thought you were the one always settling Steve’s fights since he was too small and sick before the serum.”

“Steve was bigger than all of the boys he ever brawled,” Bucky argues even if he’s talking figuratively. “If it came down to a fight between Steve and some punk, you betcha that fella deserved it. We didn’t always chase trouble. Sometimes trouble chased us.”

He hears Steve’s light footsteps first and the hesitation in his tread means that he’s slowed down to listen.

Bucky drains the mug and stands up to take it over to the sink. By the time he returns Steve is standing at the edge of the couch and he seems to have composed himself a little, though his skin is a little flushed.

“Tony’s being-“ Steve starts and waves a hand through the air, stopping short of actually saying anything.

The thing is though he doesn’t need to.

“Yeah, I know, pal,” Bucky agrees, gripping Steve’s shoulder and squeezing when he comes within reach.

Maybe Steve falls into it a little or he’s just aligning hidden meaning to his actions that clearly doesn’t belong there. He needs to stop. 

Bucky lets go and steps away, looking to Raenia. “We leaving?”

Raenia nods and doesn’t comment.

Steve’s hand accidentally brushes his hip as they head out through the hallway and Bucky wishes, not for the first time that Steve’s touch could pass the barrier of clothing and reach the skin beneath.

It’s not like Steve hasn’t always been beneath his skin. But he doesn’t deserve that from Steve and he’s not asking anymore. Not from Steve. And certainly not for this. Steve would give him anything if he asked, he knows, but he doesn’t want it this way.

He knows exactly what he’s waiting for. It’s a foolish hope keeping his feelings muddled and confused and always, always wanting.

But he wants Steve to ask. For once. He wants Steve to wonder if maybe this is something that he wants between them, to really think about it and then Bucky wants him to _ask_.

He’s not picturing a love declaration, running off into the sunset together kind of resolution but he wants Steve to ask. To realise that he wants something and maybe if that something could be Bucky.

It’s impossible. Even now, Steve still doesn’t know how to ask for anything, to listen to his own needs above the needs of others. It’s never going to happen because Steve can only understand that as selfishness. He could stand to be less selfless with his life but that’s another fight that Steve doesn’t look like he’ll ever win.

Putting his own needs first sometimes.

Bucky doesn’t even care if it’s to realise he doesn’t want Bucky like that after all. He just wishes Steve could figure out what he wants and feel comfortable enough to think of asking for it. But he knows Steve’s not there yet.

And he’ll probably never be. Steve’s already given his life to his country but a whole lifetime is never going to be enough.

Steve will give the rest. Until he’s got nothing left or he finally loses the next fight.

Bucky doesn’t think he can survive that. He doesn’t know how Steve did it when he fell in 1945.

He doesn’t dwell on the fact that Steve didn’t, that he crashed Red Skull’s plane into the Arctic only a few months later. That’s a path he shouldn’t go down.

What matters is they’re both here now and he doesn’t plan on losing Steve again.

Not if he can help it. Not even if it means that friends is what they’ll only ever be.

He won’t lose Steve. 

He can’t.

 

  
  


 

It doesn’t seem like it will be an issue until Steve’s next assignment goes badly enough to warrant sending him to an undercover SHIELD hospital afterwards. 

Natasha called him after his shift and he’d followed the coordinates she sent to a facility in upstate New York. 

Bucky arrives at the Tower in record timing and ‘borrows’ one of Tony’s many expensive and shiny cars in order to get there. He does it in full view of the cameras so that Jarvis has something to tell Tony when he finally figures it out. The AI watches him but doesn’t make an effort to prevent the theft. 

They’re expecting him when he arrives at the facility two hours later but by then he’s actually damaged the wheel from gripping it too tightly with his metal fingers. He’ll be paying Tony back for the rest of his life knowing how much the car must cost. 

Security waves him through, handing him a visitors pass and nobody looks at him like he’s the Winter Soldier which some of them clearly recognise that he is and he appreciates the attempt. It does absolutely nothing to calm his nerves. 

This has been one of his biggest fears now that Steve is still out there fighting and he isn’t. That one day something is going to happen, that someone won’t cover his back or the other guy will end up being stronger and Steve won’t return. 

He’s sweating by the time he makes it to Steve’s hospital room and luckily by then he’s conscious and sitting up against the pillows. He’s still in a sorry state even with his accelerated healing and Bucky’s never felt so relieved or so furious at once. 

Natasha is sitting in the chair by the window but she subtly excuses herself when he enters, squeezing his arm encouragingly when she glides past. 

“What was it?” Bucky wonders, fury lacing his tone. “A fucking truck?” 

Steve grimaces. “A building. Collapsed on top of me and the two civilians I was protecting. Bucky I'm-” 

“Don’t you lie to me and tell me you’re alright, Steve,” he warns, stomping over to steal Natasha’s empty seat. “I’m lookin’ at you and I can see for myself.” 

“It’s really not that-“ 

“You need to stop dying for them,” Bucky says, still angry and touching on a subject he’s been thinking about for a while now lately and been thinking more of on the frantic drive up here. 

Steve frowns, evidently startled by the words but doesn’t seem like he understands. 

“I stopped killing for them,” Bucky continues, quietly. “And you gotta stop dying for them. There’s always gonna be another fight but there are only so many times you can sacrifice yourself to win it. Sooner or later you won’t come back.” 

A stubborn edge masks the pain that Steve’s currently in as he settles in for an argument. “It’s different. You didn’t have a choice but I do. It’s worth it.” 

“Not to the people you leave behind,” he snaps and his voice is strained and weighted with every emotion he carried in from New York on the drive over. 

Steve recoils at the sting of his words and Bucky’s anger cools seeing that expression on his face. 

“I should go,” he says abruptly and some of the fire is back in Steve’s eyes like he’s planning on convincing him to stay. “I stole one of Tony’s sports cars in order to get here.” 

“Oh. Okay.” 

Steve is visibly disappointed that he’s leaving and Bucky can’t take any other emotional shifts after the rollercoaster he’s been on rushing to get here, unsure of the extent of Steve’s injuries and how life threatening it might be. This entire experience has been stressful enough. 

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Bucky says but doesn’t approach the bed, because he’s not sure what he’ll do if he’s touching Steve right now. “When are they gonna discharge you?” 

Steve looks uncertain around him in a way that Bucky’s never seen him before and it almost makes him regret the outburst. This isn't what he wanted. 

“A couple hours.” 

“Nat your ride back home?” 

Steve hesitates a little. “Yeah, I guess.” 

Bucky runs his fingers through his hair and winces at the sensitivity of his scalp. He’d been tugging haphazardly at the strands in worry during the drive in between bouts of strangling the steering wheel between his fingers and now the area feels sensitive. 

Steve notices the twitch of pain. “Are you-?” 

“Please don’t ask me if I’m alright, I can’t take that from you right now.” 

He can’t believe that he even has to say it, that Steve would think to ask if he was hurting when he’s literally sitting in a hospital bed while his bones re-set and heal. Bucky knows from experience that it is not an enjoyable process. 

“Okay,” Steve answers, pragmatically but he still doesn’t seem to understand why Bucky’s so upset. 

He nods when he hears Natasha’s light footsteps in the hall and walks out without another word, knowing if he opens his mouth he’s probably only going to yell at Steve some more. 

Natasha’s only three metres away outside, coffee in hand and clearly surprised to see that he’s already leaving. Bucky can’t even begin to explain, especially with Steve in earshot so he shifts his expression to best convey that everything is fine even as his body remains tense and agitated. 

He doesn’t wait for Natasha’s questions and disappears down the hallway before anybody else can stop him or Steve’s foolish enough to come after him even with two broken legs. 

He makes it back to Tony’s flashy car without issue, having memorised the layout of SHIELD’s unofficial facility when he walked through it earlier. Security lets him out at the gate and it’s only when he’s back on the road that his cell phone starts to ring. 

He’s expecting Steve or Natasha wanting him to explain his behaviour but Bucky knows he can’t without getting into the deeper reasons as to why this matters so much to him. 

It’s not either of them. 

It’s Tony. Probably wanting to know what happened to his car. Bucky stares at the crumpled wheel which is still somewhat functional and wonders if he can persuade Tony into never mentioning the extent of his reaction to prospect of Steve being injured to anyone else. Tony will probably hold it over his head long into the foreseeable future. 

Bucky presses his lips tightly together, takes a breath to centre himself and answers the phone. 

 

  
  


 

They don’t talk about it afterwards when Steve comes back to Bucky’s apartment that night and knocks on the door, fully healed and moving about as if it never happened. 

His chest hurts at the sight of Steve’s hesitancy and any of his anger has long since passed after he returned Tony’s car to the Tower and got thoroughly chewed out for it. He didn’t get too much shit about it though since apparently Tony had been planning on getting rid of that particularly flashy sports car anyways for a newer model. 

Tony is impossible but at least he didn’t mention the steering wheel and the circumstances which led to its destruction. 

Steve gives him this look as if he’s worried that Bucky won’t even let him over the threshold but he steps back and pads into the kitchen to make tea as Steve closes the door behind him. 

They don’t talk about Steve dying again. 

 

  
  


 

Dinner must have gone well because Pepper becomes a fixed presence at most of their gatherings after the last encounter. Bucky finishes work on Wednesday at Fluent City, meets Steve and they walk back to Brooklyn together. 

“You’re still okay to come tomorrow?” Steve wonders. “It’s your last week you don’t wanna miss work.” 

It takes Bucky a second to remember. Oh. The meet up with Morita’s grandson, Hiroto and his boyfriend, Jacob. He’d nearly forgotten. 

“Nah. My classes finish at nine. Drinks and dinner is fine if they don’t mind eating late.” 

“Good. I’m a little nervous about it actually,” Steve admits. “Meeting Morita’s grandson.” 

“Don’t worry, buddy. They’ll love you. Never met anybody who didn’t like Steve Rogers.” 

Steve snorts and rakes his fingers through his hair self-consciously. “You were always the charmer, Buck. Not me.” 

Bucky shrugs, darkness swarming across his thoughts. “Not anymore.” 

Steve senses the change and turns to look at him. “You still are though,” he rallies. “Maybe a little more guarded than you used to be, but you’re the one nobody can’t resist once you let them close enough.” 

It takes a lot of self-control not to openly scoff at that because if that were true maybe he and Steve would’ve gotten their acts together years and years ago and finally sorted this out. But Steve could never be charmed by Bucky and that still hasn’t changed. 

He doesn’t need to say it though because apparently Steve can still read him pretty easily. 

“I mean it. Why else do you think the Avengers have been hanging around us so much lately? It’s not me they’re coming to see.” 

“Don’t talk like that,” Bucky says, sharply. “They’re your friends, Steve.” 

“And they’re your friends too, Buck. That’s what I’m saying. You know I never say things right but I want you to know that you have a place here, too. With me.” 

Bucky swallows because he finds he can’t look at Steve after he’s said something like that. It feels like it should be written right there on his face like a hopeless declaration. _I love you_. 

“Yeah thanks, Steve,” he manages only a fraction of a second too late. 

He changes the topic quickly before he makes it worse. “What are we eating tonight?” 

“Not sure,“ Steve says easily. “What do you want?” 

Bucky sighs. _For you to tell me what you want for once in your entire life_ , he thinks. 

Tell me. 

Tell me. 

_Tell me_ , Steve. 

"Chinese food, maybe?" he eventually suggests, avoiding his eyes and feeling impossibly drained by his own heartache all of a sudden. 

"Works for me," Steve agrees, utterly oblivious and content. 

And it's never felt truer for him in that moment that he'll wait forever for a word from Steve that's never going to come. 

And he'll keep waiting. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Любо́вь зла́, полю́бишь и козла́ -love is blind (love is evil, you may even fall in love with a goat)  
> Du hast wunderschöne Augen -you have such beautiful eyes  
> Er spricht auch deutsch -he also speaks German  
> Danke -thank you


	3. Chapter 3

Hiroto asks them to meet at Grand Central Station once Bucky’s finished his class at the Institute. Steve waits a whole block away to avoid even the possibility of another encounter with Chad and Todd and when Bucky meets him they head towards the nearest subway together.

Steve, as always, draws a few lingering glances on the train but it’s late Thursday evening and the commuters are otherwise uninterested by Captain America sitting casually in their carriage. He’s hardly the strangest sight to grace the New York subway. Bucky knows from experience.

They don’t talk much for the entire trip; Steve’s all nerves for his first meeting with Hiroto and Bucky’s preoccupied by thoughts of Chad and Todd and the Ivy League’s ongoing beef with Richard at Fluent City despite the fact that their class already had its final lesson earlier this week. 

They’ve come so far, especially Richard who’d even approached him with thoughts of quitting two weeks ago before Bucky managed to talk him down. His anniversary is this weekend and Richard had been nervous and excited during their last lesson, making the final preparations, oblivious to Ivy League rolling his eyes when he kept checking pronunciation during the last five minutes. 

Violence isn’t such a big part of his life anymore but there’s a definitely satisfying and perverted thrill in thinking of the possibilities of getting his hands around Ivy League’s neck. 

He’ll just have to compromise for never having to see the asshole ever again and that’s hardly a bad outcome anyway.

Bucky hopes Richard’s anniversary date goes well after all the effort he’s put into learning Russian for his wife. He’s got a strong feeling that it will.

Even so with his thoughts wandering, Bucky’s eyes don’t stray far from Steve or the way he keeps distractedly messing with his fingers, twisting them this way and that. From how he’s been living, Steve’s social skills have somehow ended up being worse than Bucky’s. 

He can't get away with being just a regular guy anymore now that he's a famous celebrity and Bucky knows how much that upsets Steve even if he’d never admit it.

Steve can still handle being social though, if he somehow manages to relax a little in the way he does around Bucky. A part of him suspects that’s some of the reason Steve wanted him here tonight but he's not going to kick up a fuss about it if it's true. He's happy to be there for Steve. Bucky knows he’s worried that this isn’t going to go well but that's impossible if Steve’s involved. 

There aren’t many people in the world who don’t like Steve Rogers and Bucky wants nothing to do with any of them.

He recognises Jacob’s enthused jittery grin before anything else when they pass through the crowds of commuters rushing around them. They mostly give Bucky and Steve a wide berth since the sheer size of both of them at once is altogether striking and nobody stares long enough to realise who Steve is. That's a relief, Bucky's not so sure Steve would handle being surrounded right now. 

Bucky probably wouldn't fair very well either. 

Jacob’s standing out of the way of the other pedestrians, holding hands with a young Japanese man who is shifting nervously as he speaks. Once they get closer, it’s clear he’s the spitting image of Jim even if a bit younger and infinitely more serious.

Steve inhales sharply and Jacob turns when Hiroto sees them, squeezing his hand tightly in understanding. Bucky wants to take Steve’s hand as well to offer support but resists, and catches at his sleeve instead, dragging him closer to make introductions.

“You’re Steve Rogers,” Hiroto breathes, amazed, once they’re standing in front of each other.

The awe is pretty understandable; Bucky’s pretty accustomed with it whenever Steve’s concerned. But the reaction doesn’t bother Steve because when he sticks his hand out it’s steadier than it was before. “And you must be Hiroto. It’s nice to meet you.”

Hiroto shakes Steve’s hand absently, eyes wide and stunned as if he can't figure out the purpose of a handshake in that moment. Bucky conceals his smirk as Jacob steps closer to slide a comforting arm around his waist as if to steady him. Jacob’s attention isn’t focused on Steve though, he’s looking at Bucky. And then Hiroto follows his eyes a second later.

“Are you really Bucky Barnes?” Hiroto asks, but it’s clear that they recognise his face from the pictures they’ve probably combed through.

“The one and only,” he says, reaching out to shake his hand gently and since Hiroto extends his left, Bucky has to use his left to mirror him.

His eyebrows shift slightly at the lack of warmth in Bucky’s false hand but he doesn’t say anything at the deliberate light pressure before they release each other.

“I don’t- there was never any- how is this possible?”

Bucky shrugs when Steve visibly tenses beside him. “Probably safer you don’t ask.”

“Right,” Hiroto agrees politely, accepting the response but still seemingly bursting with curiosity. 

“Are you both hungry?” He wonders after a beat. “I thought we could go to one of my favourite restaurants. It’s only a few blocks away.”

“We could eat,” Steve admits, smiling, and more at ease when he scoots in closer to Bucky’s side as if trying to share warmth.

There is a distinct chill in the station, a fresh breeze stealing through all of the open hallways. 

Jacob watches this interaction with interest and Bucky abruptly remembers the information he gave so freely those few weeks ago. The close attention means he’s figuring out just how truthful the parting comment was. Bucky can’t blame him for it, he did tell Jacob that he was in love with Steve after all.

Once the destination is decided, Hiroto pulls Jacob into the sea of passers by and leads them outside. 

It’s late enough that there aren’t that many people flooding the sidewalks and Jacob fills the silence with harmless chatter as they walk the several blocks towards the restaurant. Hiroto and Jacob hold hands the entire way there and Bucky’s eyes are continually drawn to the sight, wishing the twinge of envy didn't follow afterwards. 

The fantasy of what it could be like for him and Steve doesn't let him go for the rest of the walk. He manages to push the feeling down somewhere deep where it can’t hurt him and abandons it there.

There’s no room for that tonight.

Steve asks what kind of food they’re eating to keep the conversation flowing and Hiroto explains they’re visiting Sakagura, a sake bar with tapas-style Japanese dishes.

Bucky gathers that it is also carefully hidden sake bar when they walk through the lobby of an unmarked office building and follow them down a staircase into a basement corridor to reach it. The unfamiliar territory puts him on edge and even though Jacob and Hiroto are relaxed, he intentionally slows to step behind Steve and cover his exposed back.

The corridor leads to a room full of bamboo and blonde wood and once they take their seats, he’s fascinated by the 250 types of different sake available. Steve’s eyebrows are high at the overwhelming sight of so many choices when he peruses the menu, but he looks determined to try everything.

It’s a good thing he can’t get drunk. Their wallets will still suffer the experience anyhow.

They order a fair amount of dishes to taste and the waitress pauses as if considering whether to advise against asking for so much food. That is before she has another discreet look at Bucky and Steve’s hulking frames and refrains from commenting altogether. 

'恐れ入ります,' Bucky says, thanking her in quiet Japanese and she even manages an encouraging smile before going to place their orders in the kitchen and fetch sake for the table. 

Hiroto and Jacob seem more engaged by the language shift and he tries not to feel awkward at the attention. Steve's expression is soft and fond but that's how he usually looks lately. Bucky refuses to feel threatened by their interest. Besides there’s not a lot of languages that he doesn’t know these days.

“Did my grandfather teach you Japanese?” Hiroto asks, curious and Bucky resists the urge to shift remorsefully in the chair.

Morita might have taught them the basics and Bucky, the best curse words, but his fluency came from being trained as the Winter Soldier. And that’s something he does not want to talk about. Especially since they have no idea of his other identity and not knowing will ensure their protection.

Steve answers for him before the delay stretches out too long. “A little,” he says. “Just basics. Mostly cussing.”

Hiroto’s grin transforms his face so much that Bucky can see more of Jim in him and the stab of nostalgia at the sight is immense. The sadness comes next. He hasn’t really had the chance to grieve for his lost friends and family- not when he’d been focused on the lives he’d taken during the years he was lost to Steve.

“He taught me that too,” Hiroto admits. “When I was ten years old. My mother was not pleased.”

Bucky laughs because he can’t help himself and Jacob brightens at the sound, smiling between them all.

“Did Jim ever tell you the time when we-“ Steve begins and suddenly they’re back in World War II again, recounting stories.

Bucky’s surprised by how quickly the memories come when Steve starts talking. He doesn’t always know what Steve’s recounting straight away but the memory resurfaces eventually, slowly, pulled forward like a stone knocking loose and soon he’s got stories of his own. The carefree surprise on Steve's face is gratifying beyond all belief when he offers some of his own memories in return.

The waitress soon returns with their sake and Bucky finds he enjoys nearly all of the varieties they ordered. More than he expected. Jacob and Hiroto have their own personal favourites, which tells him that they visit this place often. The ease between them and the restful intimacy speaks of an uncomplicated relationship. 

Bucky can’t quite look at Steve for a moment as he drains the ceramic cup.

Hiroto and Jacob seem incredibly interested in hearing more about those days, though they do already know some of the most outlandish stories from what Morita had told them. 

Steve shouldn’t have worried. The conversation keeps moving without any roadblocks and Bucky sees him subtly relax into the new surroundings like a clock being rewound. Hiroto and Jacob are pretty solid for such a young couple, Bucky’s seen far younger who’ve been worse off for it and can’t help but feel happy for them.

The waitress comes back with their dishes this time and soon Bucky and Steve are eating food they haven’t ever tried before. They figure out after the first bite that it's delicious though. 

Bucky savours the Gomaae, lightly boiled spinach flavoured with sesame sauce, the Mentaiko, spicy cod fish roe and the Buta Kakuni, a specially stewed diced pork. Steve likes the Satoimo Iridashi, taro potato eggplant and shiitake mushrooms fried in a lightly battered broth, Sake Oyako Don, fillets of fresh salmon sashimi and salmon roe steeped in soy sauce and the Onigiri Rice Balls.

Jacob’s a vegetarian so he eats Kuro Edamame, black soybeans and mostly vegetable dishes paired off with a tofu Miso Soup whilst Hiroto has the Ika Shiokara, slice raw squid cured in salt and liver marinade and Maguro Tartar, chopped tuna with flying fish roe steeped in Yuzu and Caviar.

Everything Bucky tries is mouth watering and he and Steve share their meals with each other in order to taste as many things as possible. They’re not unused to picking off each other's plates and any discussion withers in favour of eating as much as possible. Bucky wishes he knew how to cook like this so he could try more dishes back in the comfort of his apartment.

They go through more sake and stories about Jim before Steve eventually gets out of his chair to chase down the bathroom, leaving Bucky alone. He wants to protest because he thinks Jacob’s been waiting for exactly this kind of opportunity to talk but can hardly keep Steve there indefinitely. He watches the back of his blonde head as he disappears and tries to prepare himself.

He’s not wrong. Jacob _has_ been waiting for exactly this moment. Because he stares at Bucky carefully until Steve’s out of sight.

“You weren’t lying before were you?” he guesses and from Hiroto’s lack of confusion Bucky would say they’ve discussed his throwaway admission at the National Archives at great length.

Somehow that doesn’t surprise him.

“No,” he admits, resisting a dejected sigh. “I’m in love with Steve.”

“Does he know?” Jacob wonders, glancing around the table to double check he’s not within earshot.

Bucky hopes that the bathroom is far enough that Steve can’t hear this conversation. They don't need the unnecessary heartache between them.

“No. And I’m not gonna tell him. It’s complicated.”

Hiroto drains his sake and regards Bucky with steady eyes. “You know you’re the reason my parents are still talking to me. When I came out, they didn’t understand how I could possibly be this way; liking men instead of women. It did not go well. My mother cried for days and my father couldn't even talk to me. I’d always been close with my grandfather and after their reactions, I was terrified of telling him. Older generations look at homosexuality differently and that’s where I expected the most opposition.”

Bucky winces because he knows a lot of the truth in that, even if he might have skipped the worst of it by being half frozen during those times. Still, he doesn’t interrupt. “You know what he said after I came out? He said: ‘Alright. Just don’t bring a fly boy home though they’re a bunch of fucking pills.’

He laughs because Morita’s had a beef with aviators ever since a memorable fight with a French Allied Fighter pilot in a bar in Normandy. It took the combined efforts of Dum Dum, Dernier and Falsworth to pull him off the guy.

Steve had been distracted by thoughts of Peggy and Bucky had been distracted by Steve as always. Gabe and Montogomery were too busy getting fried off their bottomless pitchers of beer to notice.

Morita had still gotten them all kicked out anyway. The barman had not been so understanding. 

Of course that would be his first concern for his gay grandson: never date a pilot.

“Sounds like Jim,” Bucky agrees, trying not to grin too much at the thought.

Hiroto relaxes into Jacob’s side. “He didn’t even blink at me, said he had plenty of friends during the war who loved men.”

Bucky’s not so sure about that but when Hiroto gestures pointedly at him and the direction Steve walked off in, abruptly, he realises exactly who Jim was referring to. He jerks in his chair, sitting up a little straighter in distinctive unease.

“Me and Steve weren’t-“

“Didn’t have to be,” Hiroto explains. “My grandfather knew. It’s why I’ve always been so engrossed with his history and yours. It’s also how I met Jacob.”

They smile at him as if they’re trying to thank him for that and Bucky’s chest feels tight.

“So your family-?” he says hesitantly, wondering what might have changed.

“He came to our house the day after I went to visit him. Drove two hours just to talk to my parents. Gave me money to go and watch a movie at the theatre and by the time I got home my mother had finally stopped crying and my father was talking to me again. He never told me what he said but after that I never had to worry about my parent’s acceptance ever again. And when I finally met Jacob I made sure to introduce him to my grandfather first.”

Bucky’s overwhelmed for a moment in a history that he wasn’t a part of and when Steve returns he must see the expression on Bucky’s face because his stride widens and he reaches him in three steps.

“Buck? You alright?”

“Peachy,” he promises, struggling to pull himself together when Steve’s hand is anchored firmly on his shoulder in concern.

“It’s alright,” Jacob says, reaching out unthinkingly to pat Bucky’s left hand resting on the table.

He’s more confused than surprised by the lack of heat there but thankfully doesn’t comment when he draws his hand back. “It’s always overwhelming. Talking about the past, getting into situations like this but we really appreciate you taking the time to meet us.”

“No problem,” he says, subtly removing his hand from within touching distance. 

Steve finally takes a seat on his left and makes a point to slide his hand down Bucky’s prosthetic arm. He shivers even though it's mostly only designed to feel pressure and threats to its efficiency like absorbing heat and countering sub zero temperatures. 

Not light touches.

The bodily reaction came from his head, not a place of actual sensation. Steve keeps his hands to himself after that and Bucky struggles to think why that is.

The rest of the night is comfortable and bitter sweet, tinged with the loss of Morita and the rest of the Howling Commandos but softened by the memories of them that still live on.

Steve insists on paying for the meal and sake and because Bucky knows how to recognise when he can’t be moved on something, he compromises by heavily tipping the waitress. Hiroto and Jacob thank them with a deep appreciation that isn’t only about the meal.

The waitress waves them out the door with a sincere smile before she returns to another table.

Bucky asks where they live once they’re outside again and Hiroto divulges that they share a flat in Greenpoint, the northernmost neighbourhood in the boroughs of Brooklyn. Steve instantly offers to walk them home since it’s close to midnight, beating Bucky to it before he could make the suggestion himself.

Greenpoint is almost midway between both of their apartments but Bucky’s last day of work is tomorrow before his courses at Fluent City and the Institute finish altogether. So he’d rather sleep at his own place than Steve’s couch. Not that it isn't comfortable, or the temptation of having Steve nearby wouldn't convince him most nights.

When they finally see Jacob and Hiroto off on the steps of their apartment block, promising to meet for dinner again some time in the future, Steve doesn’t instantly turn off in the direction of his place but follows after Bucky instead.

“I’m glad you gave him my number even when you thought I’d had your memories wiped. That was real decent of you.”

Bucky shrugs, unsure if he’s deserving of such a compliment, especially if it’s coming from Steve. “You staying at my place tonight?”

“If you’ll have me.”

Bucky wishes Steve didn’t always talk like this. It’s hard enough being sweet on him.

“What are friends for?” 

 

  
  


 

Steve hesitates a little once they’ve finished brushing their teeth in Bucky’s bathroom, using the spare toothbrush when Bucky goes to head into his bedroom.

He picks up on Steve’s reluctance immediately and pauses. “Something wrong?”

“I want-“ Steve starts, shockingly, with a phrase Bucky would never have expected of him but doesn't seem to be able to elaborate any further on it. 

Bucky frowns but waits him out, hardly daring to believe it. He’s never said anything so explicitly before. Bucky’s not prepared for it at all. Especially since he has no idea what Steve's planning on asking.

Something in Steve shifts, staring into his eyes and watching Bucky with a strange kind of intensity before he deflates, eyes drifting. “Can I borrow some sweatpants?”

“Sure,” Bucky says, confused.

He heads into his bedroom and opens the chest of drawers to pull out a fresh pair and tosses it to him. Steve is standing still, but catches them, slowly turning the material over in his hands as if he’s still deliberating and Bucky seriously can’t read him right now. The thought makes him uneasy.

Steve stares down at the pants and eventually comes back to life. “Thanks, Buck.”

“No problem. G’night.”

“Night.”

Bucky observes Steve leave with a tense frown, trying to figure out what the hell he’s going on about. There’s no time to agonise over it since he has an early class tomorrow and should probably be sleeping already. He switches off the lights and climbs into bed with a tired groan.

He’s asleep before Steve’s finished rustling about in the apartment, his soft unaffected breaths filtering into Bucky’s ears.

 

  
  


 

His last day at the Institute is chiefly uneventful apart from the unexpected party the women in his Friday class throw together once the session finishes and it hits 3pm. They’ve brought muffins, chocolate and cookies and a couple students bring wine as well which he’s not complaining about- though technically they’re not allowed to drink on the premises because of legality reasons. 

That’s not going to stop them. 

And since nobody seems like they intend to tell Chad or Todd about it, he doesn’t prevent them from toasting their success. They’ve learnt a lot here, in the small time they’ve spent and Bucky hopes that he’s prepared them enough to feel confident in protecting themselves.

In spite of his unawareness of the gathering and inability to extend invitations to his other sessions, those women still show up somehow, even a couple fellas from the Tuesday class and it’s unbelievable how easy social media makes it for people to connect these days. 

Raenia informs him that a Facebook group had been formed almost immediately after first classes began which explains why they all seem to know each other across classes before they've actually meet in person for the first time. She's tried to convince him to get onto Facebook when he was Jay and he's especially glad now that he resisted. 

Bucky Barnes on Facebook would not be a good idea.

There’s usually about fifteen to twenty five students in each session so there’s nowhere near enough room to fit five times that amount in the small studio but they make do somehow. They’re giddy and energetic but not rowdy which is why Chad doesn’t come around sticking his head in to kick them out and fire Bucky on the spot. 

Or Todd, who’s basically Chad’s stool pigeon anyway though he’s not as hard boiled as he likes to think he is. Neither is Chad for that matter. Natasha taught them a very good lesson when she put them on their asses.

There are so many positive things that came out of this job that Bucky can’t stop smiling when he sits down in the thick of it all. 

Zamira Pérez is sitting with Layla, Raenia’s sparring partner and he knows she’s struck up some fast friendships even with those not a part of her Monday session. Her neighbour is babysitting her baby tonight and even though there’s no alcoholic drink at hand because she’s still breastfeeding, the light in her eyes tells him she’s having a wonderful time anyway. 

It brings forth a rush of pride knowing that joining this class has given Zamira the support system she’s never had, one that she’ll need now that she has a baby to take care of. Every week after she admitted to only just given birth all of her classmates got into the habit of always bringing in things she might have use of: diapers, clothes, toys and even a large fluffy dragon on one unforgettable occasion. 

Zamira’s baby is in good hands and she’s lucky to have such an incredible mother.

Bucky also can’t help but notice that the class has brought people together in other ways besides newly formed friendships. Layla and Eudora have been eyeing each other to the point of distraction during his Thursday sessions, Raenia’s gotten in a few hits that Layla probably could’ve blocked if she hadn’t been watching Eudora move across the room instead. And he's been waiting for one of them to finally make a move already. 

Last week Eudora asked Layla out on a date after the lesson ended, lingering in the room whilst Bucky packed everything up. Judging from the fresh hickey on Eudora’s neck and they way they keep furtively smiling at one another, hopelessly lost in their own private bliss, the date went extremely well.

Emir seems to have recovered from his previous discomfiture in the last few weeks, accepting Bucky’s sudden unavailability with surprising alacrity. Not that there was ever a real chance of something happening between them. 

He’s all alluring smiles tonight and seems to have unintentionally caught the eyes of nearly all of the males in the studio. Given all the disruption he normally faces teaching a self-defence lesson of predominantly gay and bisexual men, the attention Emir draws is probably second to Bucky himself.

Bucky has a very strong suspicion that a lot of his students won’t be disappearing into their own beds tonight. 

He's in no state to judge, considering the beds he passed through before being conscripted for war. Especially since he was too big of an idiot to admit the bed he wanted to stay in most was his own, the one he shared with Steve.

Nostalgia makes a home in the room since he knows he won’t be coming back here and it’s more than likely he’ll never see some of these people again. Except for Raenia.

They stay much later than they probably should. It’s truly a miracle that neither Todd or Chad come in to investigate once it’s dark. They’ve probably already hit the clubs already, he can’t imagine them willingly staying back late on a Friday evening, though Chad’s been known to do it every now and again. 

Bucky quickly breaks the party up at around eight when Hayri pulls out a bottle of tequila with a playful glint in his eye because that’s something he does not want getting started.

Somebody suggests a bar one block over to continue the festivity but Zamira and a couple students pass on the offer, needing to head home. Eudora and Layla are a part of the latter group and Bucky thinks it has less to do with any other actual prior engagements but the lure of the bedroom and promise of privacy. 

He’s happy for them even it’s marred with a bitterness that his own life isn’t as simple.

Raenia declines the bar as well since she’s swapped her late shift tonight in order to meet Pepper and Tony for a late dinner to celebrate something good that happened in the lab, though she doesn’t announce that to anyone but Bucky. He doesn’t understand what exactly she’s celebrating even after she explained it to him in great detail but he’s glad that she's doing something that she clearly loves. 

Bucky makes sure those who aren’t sticking with the main group don’t walk off by themselves and somehow that turns into a lot of fond teasing for his stubborn insistence on the buddy system which he accepts with a fraction of grace. Nobody has been attacked or hurt on the buddy watch, beside Raenia when they were mugged. 

There’s no mistaking that the system works.

They part ways soon after that, a few stragglers offering to clean up, Emir and Hayri standing out the most since they’re pressed so closely together. Bucky waves them all on and says he’s got not problem with finishing it alone. He’s sad to see them all go, but hopefully there will be another place where he can work and teach like this. Meet more people as amazing as they are.

There’s no shortage of defence training institutes throughout the city. He just has to find the right one.

Raenia lingers last since she’s still waiting for Tony and Pepper and Bucky rolls up his sleeves while he cleans to avoid getting them dirty when he dumps all the leftovers into a trash bag. Raenia grabs a garbage bag as well but her phone buzzes five minutes later before she can help him carry it down to the dumpster outside once they're finished cleaning.

“Do you think anybody will see him if he comes up?” she asks him a second later.

Bucky nearly drops the bag. “Do _not_ let Tony in here. That’s askin’ for trouble.”

“True,” she agrees. “Guess that’s my cue then.”

“Need me to walk you out?”

Her phone buzzes again. “Oh hell, he’s already walking up. I’ll head him off at the pass, don’t worry. Have a good night, tell Steve I said hi.”

“You too,” he replies. “And I will.”

Raenia pockets her cell before running out and he can hear her taking the stairs first, since the elevator is usually slow. Hopefully she gets Tony out of here before he can run into Chad and start mouthing off. That is if it’s one of those rare times he’s working late in his office though Bucky has no idea what he really gets up to in there. 

His gut says Chad isn’t exactly a businessman.

Shaking his head, Bucky packs up the rest of the studio, locking everything up and switching off the lights. It turns out it isn’t one of those Chad-free nights when he miraculously appears as if called and they pass one another in the hallway when Bucky’s making a beeline for the exit.

He’s holding the trash in one hand, keys and sports bag in his right and Chad stares at the bag full of trash for an irritatingly long time as if he’s about to chew Bucky out for allowing his students to celebrate their hard work. The scale of the party would probably get him into bigger trouble than the minor mess it made. 

Especially if Chad finds out they were drinking on the premises.

Bucky jingles his keys at Chad in a non-verbal greeting that doesn’t require actually talking to the pinhead and resolves to send in his letter of resignation and drop his keys off as soon as possible. Get as far away from Chad and Todd as he can.

He heads out into the alleyway behind the building and puts the rubbish into the dumpster there before heading off toward home, sports bag swaying behind him with every step.

The walk clears his head a little and he has enough time to shower and get ready before Steve’s knocking at his door.

“Hey,” he greets, letting him in. “What are we eating tonight?”

Steve only shrugs. “Everyone’s meeting at my apartment at nine. Clint’s bringing it, I think.”

“So pizza then,” Bucky assumes.

Steve grins but doesn’t disagree with the assumption and lets Bucky lead the way once they’ve locked the door behind them.

 

  
  


 

Thor arrives at Steve’s apartment first because he can fly and that’s always the fastest mode of transport, though it draws too much unnecessary attention. 

Natasha and Sam arrive together but make no effort to explain how that came to happen even though Bucky can tell Steve is openly curious. Pepper, Tony and Raenia seem to have forgone their celebratory dinner for a semi quiet evening instead because they show up sporting enough bottles of champagne for the entire group, Banner trailing reluctantly behind them as if he’d rather be back in the lab working. 

He’s holding a plastic bag that has something large and rectangular inside it but the care in the way he’s walking with it suggests it probably belongs to Tony. 

Clint does bring pizza. Enough for all of them. Bucky can’t quite figure out how he carried such a tall order of pizza boxes for so many blocks. He’s very protective of his food.

Steve’s pretty neat and keeps his apartment in the same kind of state but all of that goes out the window once everyone gets settled and starts eating. Bucky always gravitates towards Steve without meaning to and they end up side by side, perched on the floor of the living room, surrounding the coffee table loaded with food.

They don’t find out what’s in Tony’s plastic bag until after every slice has been devoured. Thor actually puts two slices together to make a pizza sandwich and the fact that he manages to fit it all into his mouth is very commendable. He thinks constantly visiting other planets must encourage Thor to be more adventurous.

“Who’s up for monopoly?” Pepper wonders once the empty boxes have been stacked near Steve’s trash and an adequate space has been cleared for it.

It’s been a while since Bucky’s thought about board games but he’s willing to give it a shot. There’s nowhere else he’d rather be right now anyway.

“You do _know_ Monopoly right?” Tony directs at Steve and Bucky, eyebrow raised in order to sufficiently rib them.

And it’s not as if he doesn’t already know that Tony likes to call them both dinosaurs whenever they’re out of earshot. He can be such a dick sometimes.

“Oh golly, I sure hope so,” he says putting on a higher pitch that makes Steve snort in amusement.

“We knew it when it was still called Landlord’s Game,” Steve mutters in explanation, rolling his eyes as if the question is offensive.

“We playing teams?” Sam asks. 

“Yeah, pairings,” Tony starts. “But Capsicle and Barnesicle can’t be teammates.”

Sure. Because it's not as if the whole universe isn't stacked against them already.

Tony definitely learnt his lesson the last time he underestimated what they can do together and Bucky understands his motives even if they are annoying. Steve's reaction is a little stronger, looking undeniably affronted by the suggestion. Bucky feels a sudden flood of pleasure rush through him. 

“Why not?” he demands. “It’s not like you can cheat at this.”

“You have an unspoken advantage,” Tony protests. “With your mind reading. It wouldn’t be fair.”

“Gee, since you’re so threatened by us-“ Bucky mutters.

Steve doesn’t say anything but Bucky knows that he’s angry and maybe there’s another reason to it that he can’t figure out right now. He’ll get to the bottom of that later. If they get any time alone tonight. If he tries to ask without asking, Tony will just assume they’re silently communicating to cheat. 

So he lets it lie.

Steve and Sam make a team, then Tony and Pepper, Thor and Banner, Clint and Nat and Raenia ends up with Bucky.

They realise pretty quickly that it’s a different kind of monopoly when Tony proudly removes it from the bag.

It’s got all of the Avengers across it and Steve lets out a surprised laugh, catching Bucky’s eye with an unabashed delight that writhes through his stomach, pooling heat in his gut at the sight. He manages to grin back at him. Only just.

No one else has seen it before and Tony mentions it only came out on the market a few weeks ago and that he’d bought it immediately once PR let him know about it. For research purposes. Clearly.

It’s similar to monopoly except buying spaces is ‘saving’ different locations from villains and all of the players have hero powers. 

They forget about the argument once they get the game set up but Bucky knows it sits with Steve for longer because he’s responses are noticeably drier than usual. 

They roll to get their players because each one has a different power. Tony and Pepper get Black Widow, Thor and Banner get Iron Man, Clint and Natasha get the Hulk, Steve and Sam get Captain America and only Hawkeye and Thor are left.

“Buck,” Steve says, when it’s their turn to get their hero, tossing the dice to him without looking.

Bucky catches it automatically and offers it to Raenia instead but she waves him away with a silent smile.

He rolls and gets Captain America instantly.

There is a lot of unnecessary hooting and whistling that Bucky could live without and when he risks looking up, Steve is a little flushed but trying to hide the reaction.

Bucky swallows, pretends nothing happened, rolls again and this time they get Thor.

Clint’s looking at his own powers in the game, listed on a card and he is not impressed. “My power sucks. You’re lucky you didn’t get me.”

He's not wrong. Bucky reads Clint’s hero card over his shoulder and grins at how bad it is. The power is that if the player picks up a villain card then they get to select another card and choose which option is worse and discard it. For the lesser evil.

It’s a pretty terrible power.

Tony snorts. “Quit playing with yourself already and prepare to lose.”

Bucky smirks and everybody chuckles at the innuendo, even Steve cracks a grin when Clint finally tosses down the card, ineffectually grumbling to himself about false representation.

Pepper gestures at the kitchen and Tony actually stands up for her and goes to fetch two of the bottles of champagne. Bucky moves to follow, wanting a glass of water and when he sees Tony snooping through Steve’s cupboards, he opens the correct one for him and grabs out some glasses.

There isn’t any champagne flutes because Steve’s apartment is nowhere near as complicated or elaborate as that since he hardly ever drinks. Or entertains anyone else but the Avengers and Bucky.

He has plenty of mugs though so he tries to pass them to Tony.

“Oh no,” Tony says. “I won’t be handed stuff. It’s one of my things.”

He takes two glasses, presumably for himself and Pepper and Bucky rolls his eyes and expertly carries eight glasses back over to the living room without dropping them.

Steve is already moving towards him to offer his help and he gets much closer than Bucky anticipates, enough that he can feel the heat from his chest. He grips the handles so tightly that they might break before he calms down. Steve manages to take four mugs without either of them dropping anything and since they’re out of earshot Bucky decides to check up on him.

“You good?” he wonders, low and careful.

Steve hesitates to answer, which is a pretty solid 'no' on his part even if he might not voice it. “I guess. I just don’t like feeling like things are keeping us apart.”

If it was anybody else, they might say it’s just a board game and why should it matter, but this is Bucky Steve’s talking to and he understands exactly what he means. They’ve been apart long enough already.

“Me neither,” he promises though some of it feels like a barefaced lie.

Because what Steve doesn’t seem to realise is just how much closer Bucky wants them to be.

And it’s not just about sex either. Bucky just _wants_ Steve, in all aspects that he can. 

He wants them to wake up together, to share themselves in a way that doesn’t bother with the worry about going too far or crossing a boundary. He wants to be with Steve without being overly conscious of how they act around one another or how it looks to everybody else. He wants to stop reining everything in, holding back, restraining himself.

What he craves is the kind of intimacy to validate what feels like has been between them their entire lives. 

Steve’s always been a person he orbits around, the kind of person who made Bucky want to be better, to realise that he could be a higher version of himself. He’d paled next to Steve, no matter how many skirts chased after him, no matter how many boys admired his looks and his charm and his presence whenever he entered a room. 

Steve had always been bigger than Bucky, physicality aside and that kind of force, the force that comes from within proved how much Bucky needed to do to be able to stand beside him. To be _worthy_ of standing beside him.

Though nothing ever seems like it would be worthy of Steve. He always made Bucky a better man, much better than he deserved. Being around Steve now only feels like a strange and wondrous kind of gift that the universe should never have offered him. 

And yet here they are and somehow, still, it’s not enough.

Bucky wants Steve in all forms but he thinks he wants the true Steve Rogers the most, the one that the public doesn’t see. He wants something real between them. Some kind of way to know he hasn’t built this all up in his head.

The saddest part of that naïve hope is that Bucky’s no longer sure if there’s enough of that Steve left anymore since he’s given nearly every part of himself that there is to give.

The thing is, is that Bucky can get by on his own. He’s didn’t fall apart without Steve before and he’s not going to do it now. Having Steve around just makes the world a little louder, a little sharper, a little brighter but he’s not relying on that to keep moving forward. Not like he used to before the wipe.

Steve will find someone someday. He won’t always be around for Bucky and they won’t always have time for each other. That’s just the way of things. There’s no point getting upset over the inevitable. 

They won’t forget about each other, he knows they can’t but for now Bucky has to try and abandon his feelings for Steve. Everything’s so much harder when he’s wondering what it would be like to be able to lean over and kiss him whenever he wants, to go for runs through Central Park as far as they can go, to wake up tangled together in a bed shared between them, to laugh, long and loudly without fear of showing his heart on his face, to be able to hold Steve’s hand and tell anyone who’d ask that he’s his boyfriend. 

His fantasies of the two of them don’t change that much compared to the way they are now already and that’s probably another sign of how far gone he is.

Bucky sits down, thoughts spinning as he puts the glasses onto the table, glass of water forgotten. Tony opens the bottle and starts filling glasses for everyone with a needless amount of flair and they share a glance, matching private smiles when they drink from identical mugs with the knowledge that they won’t even feel it.

The game turns out to be surprisingly fun. Captain America’s power is the ability to say 'no' to any action of a card or other team that happens during the game and Bucky can feel the irony in that since Steve doesn’t say it nearly as much as he should. They can only use their individual power once until passing Go again.

Thor’s power, the one that he and Raenia are playing with is the ability to demand a re-roll if they don’t like the place they or another team land on. Bucky’s sceptical about how good of a power it is until Tony and Pepper hit Free Parking and there’s a hefty pile of fake money sitting in the centre of the board game for them to collect. 

That is, until Raenia smiles wide and asks them to roll again.

Tony curses at her, because he obviously enjoys money, real or otherwise, and resents that kind of move. Since Iron Man’s power is to use any other heroes power as long as it’s still active and everybody has already made use of theirs before they’ve passed Go again, there’s nothing they can do to stop her.

Pepper sips her champagne from easily the most appealing cup in Steve’s glassware and slaps Tony’s hand when he tries to steal the money anyway.

The game doesn’t last as long as regular monopoly since after all the locations have been saved by the heroes, the winner is decided by how much money or 'power' they’ve collected at the end.

Clint and Natasha win but only because they’re ruthless with the Hulk’s power which is the ability to switch any two players at the beginning of their turn and they’ve been constantly switching with anybody about to pass GO to keep collecting the 200 dollars. Their strategy is not only incredibly infuriating but it leaves them with the most amount of power by the game’s end, followed by Sam and Steve, then Bucky and Raenia, Thor and Banner.

Tony and Pepper come last but that’s only because everybody was quick to gang up on Tony and Pepper got caught in the crossfire. Since there’s bottles of champagne still being opened neither of them are very upset about the entire thing, though Tony resents being targeted and is very vocal about it.

They’re just setting up a new game and Bucky’s switched out champagne for water since it’s doing nothing for him anyway when he realises that Steve’s apartment isn’t as warm as he expected. Since he came from work all he has is a thick coat but it’s too stiff and immovable to wear contentedly around an apartment. 

“Hey, Steve can I borrow a sweater?” he asks since Steve still hasn’t bought himself a heater yet. 

Though to be fair, Bucky doesn’t have one in his apartment either.

“Sure,” he agrees absently since Sam’s has his attention with trying to roll them their new hero power for the next game. “You know where to find one.”

Nobody wants to get Hawkeye. Not even Clint.

Bucky stands up and Sam rolls the Hulk. He grins triumphantly and Natasha and Clint seem disappointed to have lost their advantage. Steve smiles and Bucky can already see the gears turning in his head with the possibilities.

Sam and Steve will probably be just as ruthless. He leaves Raenia to roll them a hero power when it’s their turn and hopes for the best.

He shuffles into Steve’s bedroom and locates the drawer where Steve stashes all of his thick sweaters, though there aren’t many to choose from since he never seems to get as cold as Bucky. Not with his body always running so hot.

He pulls the drawer open but before he reaches inside, something catches his eye beneath Steve’s pillow.

It’s the exact same place where Steve used to stash his sketchbook when they lived together before the war and he’d be sketching late or have a project due. Bucky has tried to rest his head on the unforgiving hardness of Steve’s sketchbook stuffed beneath a thin pillow more than once and recognises the significance of the hiding place.

Smiling at the memory and curious now, he approaches Steve’s bed for a better look. The smile slips off his face when he sees the material only just visible beneath it.

Because Bucky thinks he recognises it. 

Finger’s unsteady, he reaches underneath to draw the item of clothing out. He stares at the sweater for a long time, unsure of what he’s looking at. Because the sweater is _Bucky’s_. His favourite sweater, actually, from when he’d been living at the Tower. 

The one Steve said he hadn’t seen when Bucky said he couldn’t find it anywhere.

But here it is. Under Steve’s pillow as if he’s been sleeping with it the entire time. Bucky doesn’t know what the hell Steve is trying to do.

Was it some kind of token to remember him when he’d been living as Jay? If that’s the case then why didn’t Steve give it back when Bucky remembered himself again? Why did he even keep it to begin with?

His mind is careening into a place of hurt and confusion. Why does Steve own these kind of tokens of Bucky’s but when Bucky finally kissed him, backed off and said that he didn't mean it? Why did he say no to sharing Bucky’s bed when he literally has been sleeping with Bucky’s favourite sweater for fucking months on end?

He hears the footsteps like a faint hum and he knows it’s Steve before he even announces himself.

“You get lost, Buck?” he wonders, gently teasing as he comes into the bedroom.

Bucky can’t answer but he turns to look at Steve, the sweater clenched tight in his fist and with an expression that probably doesn’t look good based off of the way Steve’s smile falls.

“Oh,” he says, faintly and his face crumples at the sight of it, a set of complex emotions scattering across it but Bucky’s not looking at him anymore, he’s staring down at his sweater clasped between his knuckles.

The sweater he hasn’t seen in months because Steve’s had it _the entire time_. In his _bed_ no less where he’s been _sleeping_ with it. His mind is running in circles but it keeps coming back to that distinct observation.

Bucky can’t take it anymore.

“What the hell is this?” he demands, anger loud and red in the painful silence.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, because he’s always sorry but never for the right reasons. 

He’s never gonna understand what he’s doing, acting like this, what he’s been doing to Bucky. “I know I should’ve said some-“

“You have to stop,” Bucky says, the extemporary demand falling from his mouth before anything else can happen. His hand moves upwards to shield his eyes from the sight of Steve right now. He can’t take it. “I can’t do this anymore.”

“You can’t-? Hold on- wait a minute, Buck. You gotta let me explain-“

“I can’t,” he agonises. “You’ve got to stop treating me like this as if I mean more to you than anything else in the world. More than your best friend. It just keeps giving me false hope for something that’s never gonna-“

He lets out a frustrated sound and finally looks at Steve, at the horrified, anguished expression on his face. The guilty, pained flush. The dog tags around his neck glint at him like an accusation and suddenly he’s directing all of his rage towards them.

“Why the fuck are you wearing my tags around your neck? Huh?” he mutters, reaching forward to rip the chain from Steve’s throat, a physical means to tear himself free once and for all.

But Steve’s faster. He catches Bucky’s wrist and holds it tightly to prevent the effort. He won’t allow Bucky to destroy this. But why though? When he won’t even explain why it matters?

“Buck-“

“I’m going out of my head here. You’ve gotta tell me what you want Steve, because I’m done taking.”

Steve startles and his mouth falls open.

A beat passes and he seems as if he wants to speak but can’t find the words. Bucky waits for him, longer than he should, but he’ll always give Steve a chance even when common sense insists by now that he shouldn’t.

Steve doesn’t say anything though and the fact that he looks so put on the spot really proves in the worst way that he’s really never thought about this before. About them. 

He releases Bucky’s wrist with a sharp inhale and that’s his answer isn’t it? It’s the same answer he’s been giving since he got Steve back again but Bucky had refused to listen.

He’s listening now. It’s been more than seventy years but only now, finally, have these feelings started to aerate between them.

He almost wishes they hadn’t. It hurts a lot more than he could ever have predicted it would.

Bucky fights not to show that on his face and tries for a steady calmness that he does not feel. He’d only just assured Steve that he wants them to stick together but here he is already aching for some distance between them. He needs to nurse his hurts and try to move on. 

That’s all he can do.

“I need some time apart,” he admits inaudibly, incapable of looking Steve in the eye anymore. “I gotta get my shit together before I can be like you want me to be.”

Steve’s steadfast determination is the biggest threat to him right now. “Bucky-“ 

“Please.”

The fight eases out of Steve all at once and he’d never have believed it of him before, that he was capable of actually giving up like this without a word. 

The sudden absence of his bull-headed stubbornness is a staggering shift that unsettles the very core of him as if they’re staring at each other for the first time and realising maybe they don’t know everything there is to know. He can’t let Steve’s unfamiliar and vacillating reaction hurt him.

It was only a matter of time before he had to let Bucky go.

“Of course,” Steve whispers, voice strained with emotion. “Whatever you want.”

Bucky thinks he might hate him for that.

He leaves Steve’s bedroom without a word, sweater clutched between his fingers like a poor consolation prize. 

The rest of the Avengers are still sitting out in the living room, perched around the game board, visibly tense and Bucky can barely look at them as he slips past. They must’ve overheard all of it, they definitely hadn’t been whispering in Steve's bedroom.

“What the hell just happened?” Tony wonders faintly, glass full of champagne in the middle of being refilled again. “Barnes, are you-?”

“Leave it Tony,” he mutters, grabbing his coat off of the couch that he’d slung it across.

“I’m sorry,” Natasha says and she looks it but he doesn’t want that from her right now. 

From any of them.

Bucky’s starting to think he knows now why she’s been meddling with Steve so much lately. She’d been trying to help them.

But even Natasha can’t create something that was never there to begin with.

Sam moves to his side, concern on his face and hand coming down onto Bucky’s shoulder once he’s finished sliding into his coat. Steve still hasn’t come out of his bedroom and Bucky is grateful for that small reprieve right now.

“Do you want to talk? We can grab a bite to eat?”

Bucky appreciates that but he doesn’t need it. 

“I want to be left alone for a while,” he says, attempting to lift his mouth to show gratitude for the gesture. He’s not at all convincing. “But you should check on Steve.”

Sam is reluctant to let Bucky go but he has no choice. He’s leaving. Bucky wants to go and pretend this never happened but he’s knows he’s not that lucky.

Steve’s front door shuts quietly behind him and he overhears the room erupt into urgent conversation now that he’s supposedly out of earshot. Bucky sighs, turns on his heel and stalks towards the emergency stairs before anything else can be heard.

When he makes it outside the city is cold and aloof and just what he expects it to be. There are no stars out in the sky, they’ve been hidden behind the cover of clouds and pollution. That seems fitting somehow.

He walks home, without even watching where he’s going, slipping between passers by like a ghost.

He pretends that it’s over, that he’s finally let go of everything he’s ever felt for Steve and that this is the conclusion he’d been dreading all along but has steadily been moving towards. Being alone with his feelings and nothing else except to wallow in them, savouring each memory before it sours with bitterness and regret.

But he knows that’s a lie.

Even now, Steve is walking with him every step of the way.

Raenia calls his cell phone and there’s a hurt, wounded creature inside him that doesn’t want to answer, to completely withdraw from all of his friends for a while. But he can’t do that to her.

“Hey. Can we not talk about it?” he says as soon as he’s answered.

“Of course. Want me to come over?”

“No,” he says. “I just want to be alone.”

“Feel sorry for yourself you mean.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Bucky-“

“Please. It’s just- I got my answer and it was the one I expected from the start. I want to be alone and process everything.”

“Okay. I’m sorry it didn’t work out for you. Just call me if you need anything. Everybody’s worried about you.”

“Thanks, Rae.”

He hangs up and tries to ignore the sweater still hanging from his fingers. It feels a lot heavier than it should.

 

  
  


 

He wasn’t lying. He does need to be alone for a while. Needs to think. The best place to do that is on the roof. So once Bucky arrives home he slips into his warmest and softest pullover, throws the coat back on and trudges up the flight of steps leading to the top.

He abandons the sweater Steve’s been sleeping with for months on his bed. He can’t look at it right now.

It’s already late but he sits in his favourite spot and watches the city move around him, trying to ignore that this feels like the nadir of his life right now. It’s an exaggeration, Bucky’s had moments infinitely worse than this but he needs to feel this ache in his heart in order to properly move on.

This shouldn't change anything. He doesn't need Steve to survive like he thought he did when Steve first found him again on the run. And it’s good to know that they can exist independently of one another but Bucky would rather have him right now than an old sweater. He would give up a thousand sweaters just to have Steve love him the way he does.

It’s not gonna happen and Bucky needs to accept that without him around the world will have a little less colour for a while.

But he can move on. He has to try because he can’t lose Steve over this and he can’t keep pining after his best friend either.

Something needs to change.

Bucky curls up in his favourite spot and allows his lungs to breathe. Great, heaving expanses of air. This won’t affect their friendship. Steve’s too good to abandon Bucky for this after everything he’s gone through to keep him.

Things might be awkward for a while and painful, but they’ll be able to figure it out. Bucky won’t bring these feelings up again. He can ignore them.

There’s a reason why he’s always kept them close to the chest, to protect his heart. Only time and space will give Bucky the chance to stop holding on for Steve like this.

He sits there for hours until the city falls quiet and his face is numb with cold.

Then he trudges back to his apartment, crawls into bed and sleeps.

 

  
  


 

The next morning he’s in the middle of idly surfing through channels, curled up inside a blanket on his ancient couch that still smells of Steve because he’s been sleeping there so often. His mood has only marginally improved since last night and that has everything to do with the steaming mug of coffee in his hands.

That is until he lands on a local news channel and sees his own face staring back at him.

Not his face half concealed by the mask of the Winter Soldier.

No. _Bucky’s_ face. James Buchanan Barnes. From pictures taken during the war.

He turns up the volume, panic beating in his chest and gingerly sets the mug down to listen.

“An anonymous source reported late yesterday evening that the identity of the Winter Soldier is in fact Steve Rogers’ lifelong friend and brother in arms, James Buchanan ‘Bucky’ Barnes. FBI Facial recognition has confirmed a 99.9 per cent accuracy between that of the Winter Soldier and Bucky Barnes. Claims that he is hiding out in New York have been issued to the NYPD, substantiated by various sightings and witness accounts but has yet to be officially confirmed. Police have issued a warrant for his arrest and have placed roadblocks at all major highways to prevent the suspect leaving the city-“

He switches off the TV before they say anything else and his hands are shaking. There’s nothing else that he wants to hear, he can’t listen to it anymore. 

Betrayal sits heavily in his gut. Who was the anonymous source? Bucky is always extremely careful. The person who condemned him could only have been somebody he knows. Someone close to him.

At first, he thinks maybe it might’ve been Tony but they’ve reached an understanding lately, albeit a strange one so he would have nothing to gain by selling Bucky out. Chad and Todd are a given but he’d been careful with them, never revealing anything personal about himself. Not enough for them to put anything together, they’re not intelligent enough for that. 

Abruptly he remembers both Hiroto and Jacob touching his metal arm at different stages of the dinner they shared together with Steve several days ago and something cold presses against his chest, compressing his lungs.

He doesn’t want to believe it.

It doesn’t matter who exposed him. The point is, is that it’s happened and now he must consider the available options.

He could leave but the idea is drastically unappealing. After a life on the run for two years ever since breaking free of Hydra, he knows better than most how hostile it can be. If there’s a choice then he doesn’t want to go back to that, it’s gruelling and isolating. He has roots here anyhow, family, _Steve_ and he doesn’t want to leave that all behind.

Coffee abandoned, Bucky checks his phone and there are at least fifty messages from his friends offering advice on what he should do. He skims them briefly, ignoring the twinge at the sight of Steve’s name on the screen. He does not allow himself to focus on the fact that Steve’s sent the most texts out of everyone and none of them have anything to do with their conversation last night. 

Any disappointment at that shouldn’t even register right now but it does. Nearly everybody insists he return to the Tower to hide out until they can do some damage control. Tony even says he’ll send a driver round as if that won’t be conspicuous.

Either way, Bucky’s options aren’t looking great. 

He thinks about everything for a while just to get his head straight. 

It’s not as if he’s being falsely accused. Bucky is guilty of all of these crimes that they want to punish him for and it’s unmistakeable that his testimony on completed missions, high profile or not, could shake up the entire world. There are the loved ones of his victims who still deserve to have closure, to know that their deaths weren’t just ‘accidents’. 

It’s hard to be indifferent when he knows that he has the power to give that to them.

It doesn’t even seem like much of a decision. But he’s decided anyway. Bucky picks up his coffee again, savouring the taste longer than needed before draining it completely and moving to the kitchen to wash it up, leaving it to dry in the sink.

He goes to shower and savours that too. Because he’s about to leave this life of comfort behind in order to do the right thing. 

It’s funny but he knows it’ll horrify Steve rather than make him proud, showing Bucky's still the same type of man he’s been following all these years. It’s not to prove anything, he doesn’t suddenly expect this will make Steve suddenly fall in love with him, by now he’s done enough. 

It’s just tellin’ the truth. Even if it’s a truth the public doesn't want to hear. 

Governments can fall with the information he’s got hidden away in his mind. It’s not his hands that are the real danger but the secrets that can spill out of his mouth. Each wipe was designed to endure the missions, not to remain with the Soldier afterward where they could be exploited or compromised. 

They wiped his mind like a machine, deleting data but Bucky is not a machine and after a couple months away from the chair, everything came back on its own. He remembers every kill, if not all the details but he’s confident that he could piece together a timeline if given the chance. 

The Winter Soldier’s timeline.

Bucky shudders, cold under the heat and steam before staggering out of the shower, suddenly uneasy with the small space as he reaches out for a towel. He wraps it around his body and heads back into the bedroom. Once he’s dry, he chooses a fresh pair of jeans and a thick sweater, grabs his coat and wallet full of false identification.

His phone buzzes a second later and it’s Natasha telling him that she’ll be there in ten minutes to check on him. Bucky realises that she must’ve guessed what he’s about to do and heads for the door, leaving his phone on the kitchen table.

He won’t need it. Not anymore.

Bucky locks his apartment and heads out onto the street, keeping his hair up in a bun because in the photos of the Winter Soldier it’s always a straggly mess and in James Barnes' photos it’s much shorter and falls scruffily across his forehead unless slicked back. He’s clean shaven too because the stubble was just as familiar to the public and like this he can pass off as some kind of unkempt but stylish hipster.

It’s an easy disguise to conceal his identity when walking down the busy streets even without keeping his head down. There’s a station only several blocks away but he’d rather be in Brooklyn when he does this, so he keeps walking, uniforms moving past him without identifying his face.

The journey has him all balled up before he even walks all the way to Union Avenue, overflowing with all the different ways this could go wrong. They might kill him before he even makes it to trial or send somebody in to silence him. 

It’s hard to keep moving when he knows there’s no positive outcome for this. At least not for him. If they don’t kill him then it’s life in prison, which might be just as awful. They’d stick him in solitary too, because he’s such a danger to the other inmates. At least nobody will hassle him then.

He isn’t changing his mind though and walks onward, not drawing unwanted attention despite the fact that he’s still plastered all over the news. He knows how to walk unnoticed. 

Bucky pauses at the door of the NYPD as if contemplating the decision but it’s been made hours ago and he’s not turning back. After a breath, he walks into the 90th precinct for the New York City Police Department.

The black officer at the front desk doesn’t look up when he approaches, bent over a pile of paperwork. She’s wearing a badge that displays her as Officer Parker and while that is unusual it’s probably done to put the public at ease when they approach her. He’s not sure if they get much action in this precinct, it seems relatively quiet but that’s definitely about to change.

“Hello,” he says and she still isn’t looking at him. “I’m James Buchanan Barnes and I’m here to turn myself in.”

Her fingers freeze on the paperwork and she’s seizing the radio strapped to her shoulder and shouting out several codes Bucky faintly understands the meaning of in the next second. Active warrant, possible crime, requesting backup and assistance. He’s been trained to recognise police codes after all.

Bucky doesn’t move but has to give the woman credit, she’s fast. Back up arrives before a full minute can pass though they’re grossly unprepared and overcompensating with guns already drawn.

They don’t look like they’ll shoot but Bucky is already on his knees with his hands interlaced on the back of his head when they arrive. The woman on the desk is staring at him now, eyes wide and horrified as if she’s finally comprehending how close her brush with death had been.

“I wouldn’t have hurt you,” he promises, but there’s no point saying such a thing anyway.

It’s not as if anyone will believe him. His record is against him.

“Remain silent,” the female officer at his back orders as the commanding officer puts him in handcuffs.

Bucky can hear the rest of the precinct frantically moving about, phones being picked up and dialled out. In the next five minutes the rest of the world is going to know exactly where he is. Anxiety swirls through his chest though it's not at the danger he could be facing but at the safety of everyone in this precinct that he might have compromised by coming here.

“You have the right to remain silent-“ the closest officer speaks to him, though they’re keeping a wide berth as if he’s a cobra waiting to strike, even restrained as he is. 

They know cuffs won’t hold him so they’re smart at least and he starts to tune them out even as the nearest officer withdraws his Taser. It’s hardly a surprise when they jolt him with 50,000 volts. They don’t use an air cartridge and hold the Taser against his skin instead. He’s prepared when it happens, gritting his teeth against the onslaught as his body violently shakes but otherwise doesn’t acknowledge the pain compliance technique.

He’s very familiar with pain compliance techniques and a Taser tolerance wise sets the bar very low.

Officer Parker at the desk stands up with a clear expression of disapproval. “Hey watch that. The suspect is non-resistant.”

“He’s the Winter Soldier,” another replies to his left, incredulous, and Tasers him again.

This time using electrodes that will cause neuromuscular incapacitation.

They fire multiple electrodes at once, shocking him repeatedly and Bucky understands their fear even as he does not resist them. His own distress is just as strong even if he does not show it, memorising pain from the chair he’s lived in for almost sixty years even if it is at a fraction of the amount. 

Hydra’s torture was never as sweet as this. They far surpassed this paltry form of compliance.

He loses consciousness around the sixth Tasing.

 

  
  


 

When Bucky wakes up he’s alone in a cell and Natasha is standing on the other side. He glances at the camera, realises almost instantly that it’s currently inactive and frowns at her.

“How much time do you have?” he wonders, sitting up and wincing only a little.

The burns from the Taser electrodes have already healed and it’s a good thing his body is stronger than regular human beings otherwise he would’ve died from the excessive use of electrodes.

Natasha shrugs. “About three minutes. I left a pretty big distraction in the alley behind the precinct.”

He doesn’t doubt her. He can hear officers yelling outside.

“What do you want?”

“Why did you do this?” she asks. “You were gone before I got to your apartment. Steve sent me cause he thought you were going to do something stupid and he was right. I have to know.”

“It was either this or run,” he says. “And I didn’t want to run anymore.”

“They’re going to bury you. There is no optimistic conclusion here.”

Bucky shrugs and ignores the way his pulse rockets. They’ve taken his coat, his shoes, his belt and didn’t even let him keep his hair tie. All he’s left in is a tank top and pants. It’s understandable. He could kill a man with less.

He surprised that they’ve left the arm attached but it’s doubtful they have the understanding to remove it safely. Bucky’s not even sure if he knows how. The smudges of ink on his right fingertips tell him that his fingerprints have been processed whilst he was unconscious. 

The National Archive probably still has his fingerprints on file so they’ll be able to match them. After they’ve gone through the Archives of course.

“It’s not like they don’t have a reason to.”

Natasha’s visibly agitated, enough that he can read it clearly in the stance of her body. “Is this because of what happened with Steve?”

He knows what she means. They have a habit of doing foolish things when they think they’ve lost each other. But that’s not what this is about.

“I don’t want to keep looking over my shoulder,” he says. “Thinking one day they’re gonna lock me up and throw away the key. At least this is on my terms.”

Natasha scowls at the explanation. “They’re saying that they caught you and that you tried to resist arrest.”

That information is not unexpected or astonishing. The Winter Soldier walking in and surrendering himself is hardly an impressive story and at least the lie might make their precinct look good. He’s not holding any grudges.

There’s no point.

Shouts echo through the closed door, louder and much more confrontational than the officers in the alley and Bucky stiffens when he recognises one of them.

“You brought Steve here?” he demands, leaping to his feet and approaching the bars to see the hallway better.

He hopes that Steve doesn’t think he’s gonna bust him out but that’s exactly what he would do. And damn the consequences. He doesn’t want Steve to end up in here with him. What would that accomplish?

Natasha’s offended by the accusation. “Of course I didn’t. He’s too emotional to operate effectively and has been suspended until further notice.”

His fingers grip the bars a little tighter. “What? Why? When did SHIELD suspend him?”

“He’s been on rocky footing since the assignment where he let a top level Hydra agent escape because he started spouting information about you to distract him. Steve broke three ribs and sustained a comminuated forearm injury when his shield took on a shell from a self-propelled Hydra howitzer. He was late to that party at your apartment because he’d only just gotten back from the hospital. He had surgery to realign the multiple pieces of shattered bone in his radius and ulna and metal pins to keep it together. Then they had to operate less than an hour later to remove them again because he heals so rapidly.”

There’s a ringing in his ears and Bucky feels like he needs to sit down. “Steve got hit by a fucking tank? Is this before or after he nearly fucking died? Why didn’t he tell me?”

“Before,” Natasha says. “You know what your weakness is?” she asks when Bucky rubs anxiously at his jaw and stares past her to focus on the sound of Steve arguing with several police officers.

He hadn’t even realised Steve’s injuries had been so bad. To be fair, he had been drunk off alien mead at the time but he’d already known Steve was covering it up in his messages. The only reason he’d known Steve nearly died the last time is because Natasha contacted him when he ended up in that SHIELD hospital. 

There’s a lot of things that Steve’s been keeping him in the dark about apparently.

“What?” he asks, distracted and worried.

Of course Steve would think his shield is strong enough to go up against heavy artillery. He didn’t even _say_ anything to Bucky about it.

“Each other,” Natasha announces clearly as if she can’t believe that this needs to be explained and the tone draws his attention back. “That’s your weakness. _Both_ of your weaknesses. Look at you right now. You don’t even care that you're imprisoned and they’re about to transfer you.”

“They are?” he says, faintly. “When?”

“Two days from now. Before your trial. It might be sooner after the confrontation with Steve. They’ll probably think he’ll try and break you out. He’s trying to get in to see you right now but they won’t allow it.”

Bucky doesn’t flinch. This is the decision he made and he needs to stand by it. They’ve exposed him already. A trial won’t be much different.

“Tony hired you one of his best lawyers, she’s extremely competent but they’re having some trouble getting in to see you as well. Since the police are arguing you’re not technically an American citizen. You perished in a war seventy years ago.”

Bucky sighs. “Right. Because it’s not like I was born here and died for this goddamn country.”

He doesn’t admit that if anything, the one thing that he truly gave his life for is Steve Rogers and all the good he was doing as Captain America. Natasha already knows that.

“It’s going to get uglier than technicalities. That I can guarantee.”

“I know.”

Natasha glances at her watch and steps back, meaning her time is probably up. Still, it was decent of her to visit. He appreciates the company. What last of it is still available to him before they lock him away for good.

“It’s- we heard your fight last night-“

“You don’t say,” he mutters wryly.

Natasha’s eyes narrow in a silent warning not to sass her right now. “Don’t give up on Steve just yet, okay?”

Bucky steps away. “I can’t do it anymore. I can’t keep hoping for something that’s not there.”

“How do you know it’s not there?” she presses. “You didn’t even give him a chance to talk yesterday and by the sounds of it he clearly wants to.”

She gestures pointedly at the room where Steve is making himself hoarse trying to get inside by any means short of using actual physical force. Bucky doesn’t have the words in him to reply to that.

Footsteps are getting closer and they’ve obviously realised that the cameras in the holding cells are no longer working. Natasha is already backing away.

“Take care of Rae, will you?” he asks. “Tell her I’m sorry and keep her out of all this. She’s important to me.”

Natasha is determined. “I will. She’s important to all of us too, you know.”

Bucky nods and focuses on the direction of the footsteps. When he looks back again Natasha is long gone.

He backs away from the bars before the officers, two by the sounds of the footsteps, enter the hallway. He sits down on the bench and faces the wall when they walk past to patrol along the cells.

They don’t speak to him but their interest is as clear as their nervousness, hands tensed on their gun holsters. He doesn’t say that they wouldn’t even have the time to unclip the holster if he actually wanted to hurt them and keeps his eyes focused on the wall instead. 

Twenty minutes later and Steve’s voice quietens down enough to mean they’ve finally talked him down enough to convince him to leave the premises. Bucky’s not sure if he’s sorry to hear him go.

Since Bucky glanced at Natasha’s watch and it read 2.16 pm it’s clear that some time has past since he surrendered himself this morning. Bucky counts time in his head just for something to do.

It’s 6.30 exactly when six officers re-enter the hallway with clear designations to approach his cell. Bucky keeps his hands where they can see them and moves into the furthest corner of the room, expecting trouble.

He’s not disappointed. 

Almost immediately the closest officer tries to push Bucky against the wall but he doesn’t anticipate the weight difference. Bucky’s muscular and much more heavy set than he looks especially from the extra weight of his metal arm. The man doesn’t apply enough force so he’s the one who rebounds from the collision, stumbling backward towards the cement wall. 

He sees that from the momentum and positioning of the officer’s arms that he’ll break both of his wrists on impact and Bucky reacts unthinkingly. He reaches out automatically and catches the fabric of his dress shirt to stop the police officer from striking the cement. 

It’s the wrong move.

The rest of the officers, who are already on edge, see the action as blatantly combative and in the next second all six of them are slamming him up against the metal bars.

His left arm comes out at the last possible moment to protect the bones in his face and the bars bend under it like they’re made of rubber.

Bucky wears a carefully expressionless mask even as Officer Parker watches, startled from outside the cell, tray of food in hand and as they force him to his knees.

After they inspect the damage his hand has done to the bars they force him in a straitjacket, taking extra care around his metal arm as if it’s likely to detonate upon contact before transferring Bucky to another holding cell. He doesn’t speak, even when they try to goad him into it by threatening to make this entire experience much worse if he tries to assault another police officer again.

He doesn’t attempt to plead his case. It’s futile. They’ve already made assumptions about him and they’re sticking to them. Hydra has made him hard to this kind of treatment so Bucky doesn’t allow any kind of visible response, shows no fear or irritation. It's strange to think only yesterday he was smiling and laughing with his friends.

Officer Parker places the food tray in front of him, once they step aside to let her through though she’s frowning and clearly puzzled as to how he’s going to be able to eat it. No other officers show concern over this though he can see they all think he won’t be able to eat at all. 

Bucky doesn’t look at her. He can’t deal with any pity right now. Not when he chose this.

“This isn’t enough food,” she says eventually. “You’ve read his file. Mr Barnes has a serum like Captain America. He needs a high calorie intake and can hardly eat with his hands restrained like that.”

The rest of the officers are unperturbed by this. “He’s a risk to every individual in this precinct. He should have been restrained earlier.”

Bucky’s used to people talking as if he’s not there but it’s a different story when they’re using his actual name and speaking as if he’s an actual person. Not ‘The Asset’ or ‘it’.

He thinks if those kinds of dehumanising words were being used right now he would not be so calm.

They leave after they’ve locked him inside when Officer Parker steps back out, though she still hesitates, clearly uncomfortable with how he’s being treated.

She pauses until the officers are well out of earshot, not even looking at Bucky as she purses her lips and whispers.

“This is all going in my report.”

Bucky’s mouth twitches with the urge to laugh but he manages to resist. He responds without moving his lips so that it won’t be visible on the camera.

“I’ve had worse.”

Officer Parker flinches a little at the sound of his voice as if she didn’t think he would actually answer and does not seem at all comforted by his reply. She frowns long and hard before leaving the holding cell. Bucky waits ten minutes before using his toes to pick up the fork and starts to eat.

He’s been trained to use his body to the best of its ability and this is a simple task even if he’s only a little clumsy from disuse. He can also unpick a lock with his feet and more than once he’s used them to diffuse a bomb when his hands were incapacitated.

Hydra wanted the perfect Asset. And the Asset can do anything.

He eats all of it, ignoring the taste. They haven’t drugged the food either which is a distinct change that he appreciates. There are limits at least.

She’s right. It’s not enough to feed him but it’s better than starving. He can survive off this amount without being significantly weakened by it. Especially when he’s not doing any strenuous activity.

He doesn’t like being cooped up like this but that’s the hand that’s been dealt right now and he should probably start getting used to it. At least this time he can close his eyes and be certain to wake up in the same place and century again.

Bucky drinks the water by placing the cup between the arches of both his feet and lifting it to his mouth. It’s not difficult but the thought that officers are watching this on the monitor is not pleasant. Every action is being closely monitored and observed. He drains the glass quickly and doesn’t spill a drop. When he’s finished, he leaves the empty tray by the bars and retreats into the far corner of the room.

There’s always yoga to take his mind off of things, even with his hands restrained but he doesn’t like the idea of it being recorded- besides any actions that are essential to survival. So instead he sits against the cement wall, feeling the coldness soothe his back and shuts his eyes and drifts.

Someone comes for him that night. 

He’s surprised that it actually took Hydra so long to respond. He’s curled up in the corner in the darkness, waiting for them when the cell doors quietly open. It’s a man, dressed in black and Bucky feigns sleep as he waits for him to come closer. The man won’t just shoot him at point blank that will draw too much attention. 

He’ll strangle him with the straitjacket or poison him with something that will make his death seem like an unexpected heart attack.

The cameras are definitely not working right now. Hydra leaves no witnesses. He hopes that no officers working the late shift came across this man before he made his way to the holding cells.

Bucky doesn’t shift and keeps his breathing even and slow to keep up the illusion as the man draws closer, removing a phial of liquid from his belt. 

Poison it is then.

He draws it out until the man is within an appropriate distance to strike. The man’s first mistake is thinking that the straitjacket is enough to contain him. It’s not but he’s not willing to break out of it right now as that will only cause more alarm within the precinct and escalate their methods of restraint.

The man’s second mistake is crouching down at a supposedly safe distance from his hands. Bucky strikes a second later, feet kicking out as his hips surge forward to push the man’s neck between his thighs. His legs tighten as the man chokes and by twisting his spine, he throws the man onto his side, cracking his head on the concrete floor.

The scuffle lasts less than a minute and he relaxes the pressure of his thighs for a moment with the intention of questioning him.

The last thing he anticipates is the man’s high, piercing scream afterwards. Startled, he uses his legs to crack the man’s head against the floor again, successfully knocking him out and he’s releasing him and slithering back as pounding footsteps come closer.

He hadn’t expected him to be vocal. Hydra agents are better trained than that. The frown on his face melts away when the lights come on and three police officers are stopping at the sight of the strange man within his cell.

Their confusion is extremely frustrating and he hadn’t expected they might be so naïve as to believe that he has no enemies here.

“How the hell did he get in here?” the man who Bucky saved from breaking his wrists demands.

The other officer is already unlocking the cell and moving in to drag his unconscious body out. She’s a lot more trusting than her colleagues who watch Bucky the entire time, even though he’s at the opposite end of the cell. They don’t offer to help even though he can see she’s struggling with his weight. 

His assassin was not a small man.

They break eye contact eventually and remove his attacker from the cell, though it’s clear Bucky came off better out of the encounter. He can hear the officers whispering to one another as they haul him away.

The lights go off with a sudden click and Bucky’s left in shadows again as his eyesight rapidly adjusts to the dark.

“How the fuck did he do that?” the officer who was brave enough to be the first to touch his metal arm in order to restrain it, wonders at a whisper.

It doesn’t matter. Bucky can hear them clearly anyway. They definitely did not read his file with as close attention to detail as Officer Parker did.

“Beats the fuck outta me,” the female officer mutters. “Alls he had was his feet free. This guy had the advantage.” 

“Once we run his prints we can get to the bottom of this,” the officer he supposedly assaulted continues. “Since he disabled the cameras before he broke in.”

“Think again,” the other man replies. “He’s burnt off his fingerprints. Have a look.”

“Jesus,” the female whistles a second later. “Acid or something?”

“I got no clue but you can guarantee it was painful. Maybe he’s-”

Eventually they walk out of earshot, footsteps tapping out a rhythm against the floor. He should’ve warned them about how dangerous that man is once he regains consciousness but it’s not worth the effort.

They don’t trust him anyway.

Bucky lets the silence settle over him again and sleeps in short thirty-minute intervals every four hours throughout the entire night.

He doubts that assassin will be his only visitor. 

Or his last.

 

  
  


 

He meets Tony’s lawyer the next morning. Unwashed, with a fitful sleep cycle under his belt at the expense of vigilance and a stomach that tenses incrementally with hunger.

Natasha was not wrong. She is extremely competent. Her name is Elvira Chavez and she is a no nonsense, no argument kind of woman. Bucky can see how she works so well for Tony. She takes none of his shit.

“Bucky is it?” she says. “Well Mr Barnes I’m sure you’re aware that the situation is less than ideal.”

“ellos están escuchando,” he says, not bothering to look up.

Elvira raises an eyebrow but slips seamlessly into Spanish instead. “Por qué estás haciendo esto?”

Bucky answers in English. “Because they wanna punish someone,” he says. “And I sure as hell ain’t gonna let it be Steve.”

He lets Elvira ponder that for a second. “What happened to that man last night?” he asks. “The one in my cell.”

Elvira hesitates, glancing at the two way glass.

“He’s dead, huh?” Bucky guesses, and she confirms it by flinching at the question.

“Your attacker was placed in a cell once he regained consciousness and was under constant guard. He took his own life before he could be questioned.”

That’s not surprising. It was either escape or protect the people that he works for. He was definitely Hydra, if badly trained. Their numbers have suffered lately since SHIELD and Steve set their sights on them. Probably why screaming hadn't been drilled out of him yet.

“You didn’t check his mouth did you,” Bucky assumes, voice level. “They have cyanide capsules installed in their teeth for exactly this situation.”

Elvira’s eyes narrow. “I’m sure that will become clear in the autopsy.”

“You want my testimony right?” Bucky wonders, changing the subject. “All the crimes I committed as the Winter Soldier?”

Elvira picks up her handbag and withdraws her phone to record the conversation, procuring a pen and pad to take notes. “It will help your case if I know exactly what I’m up against.”

“I’ve got one condition,” Bucky says. “This is going to take a while and no matter how disgusted or distressed you are you can't leave the room. Do you understand? You’ve got to stay for the whole thing. Until I’m done.”

She frowns. “Mr Barnes, there is enough time to take your testimony over several days-“

“You do the whole thing now or I tell you nothing, got that?”

Elvira’s eyes are sharp and agitated but she’s professional and offers nothing else. Bucky waits to be sure that she’s agreed before he starts. When she uncaps the pen and starts recording, he swallows and starts to talk.

To make things simpler he starts at the beginning, explains how he was made, glossing over the extreme details of his torture before slipping into the missions. The details come back vividly as if he’s reliving it all over again and as his mouth moves, his eyes continually glance at his cuffed hands as if anticipating the blood on them. 

Elvira doesn’t interrupt, taking fastidious notes the whole time and retaining a professional distance from the horrors that he’s describing.

She tries her best to appear unaffected but she’s human and there’s only so long that anyone can keep up the illusion. He knows that her composure is cracking by the third completed mission and when he mentions the target's children she’s pausing the recording and already out of her seat, aiming for the door, eyes wide and shocked as if she’s about to throw up.

“You agreed to stay for all of it,” Bucky warns, panic rushing forward when it looks like she’s not going to listen.

“I just- I just need a minute Mr Barnes,” she manages, voice shaky as she reaches for the door.

Bucky has to force himself to stay still. “You leave this room and you die.”

Elvira stills, hand on the doorknob and turning to stare at him. Some of the hardness has resettled in her spine and her eyes are angry.

“Are you threatening me, Mr Barnes?” she demands, steel sharpening her features.

“Did Tony even explain the danger you would be in for taking this case?” he wonders, astounded that she doesn’t understand. “If you leave this room without finishing my testimony you will have a target on your back from the people invested in keeping this information hidden.”

The words reach her somehow, that steel extends to resolve and she retakes the seat, picking up her pen and starting the recording again.

“Continue, Mr Barnes.”

He continues.

The words come easy, memory after wiped memory spilling forth and there’s a strange kind of relief to it like expelling a sickness. 

He knows this does not absolve him of all the sins he’s committed but the release of secrets has its own kind of freedom. Elvira’s composure worsens the further Bucky gets into every kill and they need to stop frequently in order for her to process and recover. She throws up once in the nearby trash can and continually wipes at her face as if fighting tears.

Bucky’s ashamed at the way she’s looking at him now, even though she tries to hide the reaction but this is what he’s done and her response is predictable. He wishes he didn’t have all of these details sitting in the back of his mind either but he can’t change the past and denying it would be disrespectful to the people that he’s hurt.

He reaches the end of the Winter Soldier’s timeline in two hours and by then Elvira is paler than usual and her hands are shaking.

“That’s the last time I killed for them,” he says. “And then Steve woke me up.”

She releases the pen, lets it drop onto the paper and leans back with a strangled sound. He can see that she’s sweating but he knows from experience that it’s a cold sweat from having to listen to every mission he ever completed first hand.

“This is- this is a lot,” she manages after a few minutes of silence. “I’ll do my best to represent you Mr Barnes but this is-“

“I know I’m either dead or going to live out the rest of my days in a cell,” Bucky says. “What I want is for you to make sure that this goes public.”

Her eyes widen in astonishment. “Public? But-“

“Do it right now. Upload it onto the internet. You can’t be a target if the information is everywhere. That way the families I hurt might get some closure.”

Elvira hesitates but he knows for a fact that there’s a laptop in her purse and that the precinct has decently functioning wi-fi.

“I’m serious,” he says. “I don’t give a shit about the case. Post the testimony. Put it on twitter if you have to. Hydra can’t cover it up if it goes viral.”

Still she wavers. “This will destroy your case, Mr Barnes,” she says. “Nobody will consider the significance of your brainwashing against a backdrop of such violent and horrifying crimes against so many human beings.”

“Post it,” he says. “Do it before you leave this room.”

Elvira mutters something under her breath but obeys and retrieves her laptop. She uploads the video recording and takes photos of the notes that she took whilst he told her everything. She glances at her watch and frowns.

“I have other appointments, Mr Barnes I should-“

“Do this before you go,” he begs. “And I tell you anything you want to know. Please.”

She sighs and goes back to uploading the items onto her laptop. “Are the rumours about you and Captain America true? Are you lovers?”

Bucky didn’t expect that and the careful non-expression on his face flickers. “We’re not lovers. But I am in love with him.”

Elvira seems surprised that he’d offer such a personal bit of information to her when he’s already peeled himself open and shown her everything else. One more secret won’t matter much.

“It’s uploaded,” she says a moment later. “I’ll stay on as your lawyer but I doubt there’s anything I can do to help you now.”

“Says you,” he mutters, staring closely at his hands.

“Now I really must go, Mr Barnes. I have another appointment that I should have left for five minutes ago.”

Bucky freezes when she starts to pack everything away, pulling out a set of car keys.

“Did you _drive_ here?” he demands loudly, sharpness colouring his words.

Elvira is surprised, staring between her keys and Bucky. “Yes? What-?“

“Your schedule,” he continues sharply. “Is it common knowledge?”

He can see that the sudden vehemence in his body is beginning to frighten her. “-I. Well. I have a secretary-“

“Did you park behind the station?” he wonders, moving when she starts to nod. 

The cuffs rattle harshly against the table and she flinches at the sound. “Get them to empty the parking lot. Elvira, get them to empty it _right now_.”

“What-?” she barely starts to ask, backing towards the door when there’s a violent explosion that rattles the whole building.

Bucky curses sharply and wants more than anything to jerk himself out of these cuffs and check to see nobody’s been killed. He should’ve figured it out sooner, given them more time.

“You’re my lawyer,” he mutters, furious now. “And it’s assumed you’d be the only one carrying details of the trial and my testimony, your schedule is easy to access and you _drove_ here.”

Elvira staggers against the wall. “There’s a bomb in my car?”

Bucky slumps back into his chair at the sound of running footsteps. “There was,” he mutters. “I can’t believe Tony didn’t explain to you what kind of danger you’d be in. Tell him you need round the clock protection, get Steve to offer some men to double as bodyguards if you have to or better yet, you should just drop this goddamn case.”

The steel is back again. “I will not be dropping the case, Mr Barnes. I will call Mr Stark directly as you suggest and then I will prepare for you trial tomorrow.”

He sighs but doesn’t bother to argue with her. She’s decided already and he won’t be able to convince her of anything different.

“You saved my life,” she says after a beat. “You knew.”

“Hydra are not as unpredictable as they like to believe,” he mutters. “And I guess there’s a first time for everything.”

Officers are storming into the room a moment later, escorting Elvira out and sending Bucky back to his cell. From the rushing feet and the sharp smells of burning metal and plastic this will probably have them scrambling for a few hours at least.

He really hopes nobody else was in that parking lot.

Bucky has enough blood on his hands already.

 

  
  


 

His trial is scheduled for tomorrow but after the explosion the courts decide to keep him in custody rather than transporting him to the courtroom since the danger to the public is so high.

They won’t even let him attend his own _trial_. Bucky didn’t think the court system could’ve gotten any worse but apparently he was wrong.

He waits in agitation all day but does not show these feelings, remaining seated in the corner of his cell instead of pacing like he sorely wishes.

When it slips into evening and no one has come for him, not a lawyer, not another officer with a tray of food, he starts to believe the worst. After a full day of not eating and the occasional officer passing through to ensure he hasn’t escaped, Bucky truly accepts that the trial has not gone in his favour.

As if there was any other possible outcome.

That is until an officer comes by an hour later and removes the straitjacket. The man uses a surprising degree of gentleness that he had not anticipated, staring at the stretched skin where the arm meets flesh for a significant amount of time before his mouth twists and he leaves the cell without a word of explanation. 

Bucky is unbalanced by the response, especially because it’s the very same police officer he was accused of assaulting two days ago. The man disappears and returns with two trays of food for him.

He doesn’t speak when the officer sets them carefully on the floor, looking gruff but uncertain and a lot less fractious than he was before.

“I’m sorry," the man says, astonishingly. "Parker made me watch the surveillance. I would’ve broken something if you hadn’t caught me. I have two kids, I can’t afford an injury like that. Thank you.”

Bucky is incredulous at the sudden apology. This is the last thing he could have predicted would come out of the man’s mouth. 

“No problem,” he answers, a little disbelieving but willing to give the benefit of doubt.

The officer seems surprised since Bucky hasn’t spoken to anyone since his lawyer yesterday and evidently hadn’t anticipated that his apology might be acknowledged.

The man tips his head in response and exits the cell, locking it behind him. Bucky waits until he leaves before actually eating. It doesn’t taste much better but there’s a larger portion and it’s easier to eat now that his hands are free.

Bucky still has no idea what to expect from the trial.

The officer’s change of heart seems peculiar and the timing of it has to mean something. It gives him a bad feeling. The feeling grows worse when an officer comes to collect him at eleven pm. He hasn’t seen Officer Parker since this morning and that fact seems to make him the most nervous.

The situation becomes even stranger when the officer leads him out of the cellblock in handcuffs.

The officer sits Bucky in a chair and begins typing up a report. He looks around the precinct but nobody seems to be able to hold eye contact for very long.

Something is definitely wrong here.

“The officers who used unlawful Tasering methods have been suspended without pay but if you would like to press charges now would be the best time.”

Bucky’s not sure that he heard correctly. “Press charges?”

“Yes. If you would like to file a complaint-“

“No. The third degree burns have healed already. It’s fine.”

The police officer flinches and can’t seem to look at him anymore either. He doesn't respond but continues typing for another five minutes until he’s finished.

“Alright,” he says and leans over to uncuff Bucky’s hands. “You’re being released.”

“What?” he echoes, flatly.

“You’re free to go.”

Bucky has no idea what is going on anymore.

“But the charges-“

“Have been dropped Sergeant Barnes,” the officer explains patiently and with some of the kindness that Bucky had not expected to find here in the NYPD. “We have no reason to detain you.”

“Oh,” he says faintly, rising to his feet when the officer leads him out of the precinct and towards the front desk. 

Officer Parker is not there but another man hands Bucky back his possessions, his apartment keys, his wallet, his belt, coat, shoes and hair tie.

He can’t believe this is happening and accepts all of it with an absent kind of shocked disbelief. He puts his socks and shoes back on, then his belt and ties his hair up off of his face and into a messy bun.

“Did anyone die?” he asks carefully without staring at their eyes. “In the explosion.”

The answer is immediate. “Small time injuries. The lawyer parked her car in the furthest end of the parking lot.”

He lets that sink in. Nobody says anything to him as he reorients himself, even though he can feel some of them watching him. He stows his keys and wallet into his jeans and hardly daring to believe that this is reality, says, “You know where to find me if you change your mind.”

The officer that wrote his report grimaces and turns away whilst the officer at the desk recoils. Bucky has no idea why they’re reacting to him like that but has a feeling he’s about to find out as soon as he walks out of this precinct.

“The law doesn’t work like that Sergeant Barnes,” the second officer says and Bucky would beg to differ.

He shrugs, certain this is some kind of trick when he finally walks out into the night.

Free.

 

  
  


 

Raenia is leaning against the building’s wall and he sees her shaved head immediately, heart beating fast with fear as he walks over to her. This feels like a trap or something he dreamt up in his head. He might believe it if it wasn’t for the look on her face.

The expression is terrifying and he can see that her fingers are shaking when she bursts into tears at the sight of him.

“I’m sorry,” she says and then she’s throwing her arms around his neck to hug him before either of them can recover their surprise. “I had to. I had to.”

Bucky stiffens at her words, his heart pumping frantically into his chest whilst his body tremors with mounting anxiety.

“Rae,” he whispers. “What did you do?”

She pulls away but she’s still shaking and tears are flowing so quickly that she can’t seem to speak. Bucky carefully wraps an arm around her shoulders, gauging the reaction when she allows it and starts leading her back towards his apartment.

No officers come out to stop them but Bucky continuously watches their surroundings as they hurry through the streets. It's a good thing that they're releasing him so late in the evening- otherwise he would have expected photographers and journalists to be swarming him right now, demanding answers. Raenia’s clearly distraught but Bucky has no idea what could have set her off like this.

The touch of trauma sits heavy on her shoulders. Bucky hopes Natasha looked after her like she promised.

“I hacked Hydra,” she says, three blocks later when she can finally accomplish it. “I was desperate to help. We had to get you out of there. And I found-“

She takes a second to breathe deep like the words are too painful to bear.

“I found the videos.”

Bucky inhales sharply, adrenaline inflaming his skin at the declaration.

“Oh,” he whispers, fighting the pull of excruciating memory dragging him back down into the dark again.

“I saw what Zola did,” she says and now there’s anger in her voice too, burning hot. “I uploaded the videos to the internet. All of them.”

Bucky pulls his arm back, skin dropping in temperature and his limbs suddenly don’t feel as if they belong to him anymore. He feels thinned out and exhausted and he’s not sure he can deal with Raenia’s pain on his behalf right now.

“Could we not talk about this?” he asks evenly. “I think I just wanna go home.”

“Are you angry with me?” she wonders. “I understand if you are. I used the atrocities they did to you as a tool to help you.”

“I’m not sure,” he admits, hunching in on himself. “I think I just want to be alone and think for a while.”

“Have you seen them?” she asks. “The videos I mean.”

“I lived them.”

Raenia doesn’t ask him about them again but does insist on walking him home. She tells him the police didn’t release the false identity he was living under as Jay Reiser and that the press never got their hands on the information or his address during his stint in jail. 

His apartment is relatively safe to return to.

He promises to call her tomorrow just to check in and Raenia turns around and heads home while he walks up to his floor, staring at his feet. They don’t feel like they’re connected to him and it especially doesn’t feel like he’s walking up to his apartment but he is. Once he reaches the door, he unlocks the deadbolt and lets himself in.

The first thing that Bucky does is strip off all of his clothes and step into the shower. It’s a monumental relief being clean after so long and he stands under the spray until the hot water turns cold.

Once he’s dressed and brewing a cup of coffee, Bucky decides he wants to know what happened during the trial to land him back here so he locates his laptop under a pile of magazines on the coffee table.

The trial has been filmed and Bucky searches on Youtube to find it. He clicks a link and settles down to watch. It’s about as typical as he’d expected, they condemn him right off the bat, suppling all of the evidence of his kills throughout the past seventy years. It’s the same smarmy lawyer who went head to head with Steve several months ago. 

Bucky is not pleased to see him again.

Chavez is vicious though, supplying evidence of some of Zola’s notes on his training, particularly the incidents that required correction. How they went about forcing his unquestioning obedience and the punishments that came when he didn't submit. Bucky shudders and skips ahead a few minutes when she goes into thorough detail.

He’s surprised to see Officer Parker on the stand, even more surprised when she’s questioned about Bucky’s supposed capture. 

“James Barnes was not captured,” she says and the opposing asks her to clarify, mindfully adding that she remember she took an oath before taking the stand.

“I will not perjure myself just to stroke the egos of the commanding officers in my department. There was no capture. James Barnes surrendered himself peacefully on July 16th at 9.07 am to the 90th precinct and was subjected to unlawful Taser usage that exceeded the standard amount. This is all available in my report.”

The lawyer is scrambling to recover since he evidently hadn’t expected her to say this.

“But he is unharmed?”

“Yes,” she says patiently. “Because the serum allows him to heal rapidly. But make no mistake, if James Barnes did not have an experimental serum affecting his healing process, if he had been a regular man, he would have died in police custody.”

The courtroom erupts into quiet murmuring and the Judge has to call them into order again. Chavez asks for a cross examination and further questions Officer Parker on Bucky’s treatment in jail. 

Officer Parker holds nothing back. She lists every single right that Bucky was denied and doesn’t shy away from what kind of mistreatment her precinct was involved in.

Most of the jury seems uncomfortable but Bucky can’t quite seem to believe she's saying all of it. She will lose her job for this, he’s certain.

He skips ahead again, wondering how his charges were dropped. Officer Parker isn’t enough for them to suddenly forget everything he’s done as the Winter Soldier.

Bucky finds it a second later. Chavez tries to bring in new evidence. The smarmy lawyer isn’t having it and the Judge is less than interested but Chavez argues that this evidence has never been seen before and has come directly from a Hydra facility where Bucky was kept in Cryo.

He braces himself but obviously the Judge allows the footage to be viewed or he wouldn’t be at home right now.

She brings a projector forward, having planned this from the beginning and the entire courtroom has fallen silent.

“I must offer full disclosure. The footage about to be seen is only one of the many atrocities committed against Sergeant Barnes when he was a prisoner of war of Hydra. This footage is extremely graphic and viewer discretion is advised.”

Bucky waits for the video to load, sweating and shaking all over except for his left arm. The metal is always steady.

There is so much evidence that she could have chosen, he doesn’t know what to expect.

The quality of the video isn’t perfect, it’s in black and white but Hydra’s technology had always far exceeded its time and the footage itself is horrifyingly clear.

He figures out pretty quickly what memory this is when he sees himself strapped to a table, still in his Howling Commandos uniform though half of it has been cut away to expose the bloody mess that is what’s left of his flesh and blood arm.

“Oh,” he says faintly.

This is before they gave him the prosthetic weapon. When he was still Sergeant Barnes and fighting to break free in the faint hope that Steve was coming to rescue him.

Not much can be seen through the bloody mess but it’s very clear what’s about to happen when the doctor nearby steps into view of the table laden with various sharp looking tools.

He’d nearly forgotten, that it had extended almost down to his elbow before they cut it all off.

Zola’s voice comes across the video. “Begin the procedure.”

The doctor hesitates. “Sir, without anaesthesia the subject may not survive-“

“The Asset will survive,” Zola responds in a cold, unemotional voice that Bucky never thought he’d hear again. “The serum experiment proved successful.”

The doctor stops arguing and pulls out a hacksaw. Oh. Bucky remembers this alright. He’d been half delirious with pain already but this had been excruciating. For the parts he’d been conscious for.

The doctor marks the line against the top of his shoulder. They don’t intend to keep any of his arm. They never did.

The hacksaw is sharp but not an effective instrument for a task of this calibre. As soon as the doctor starts, Bucky is screaming. He’s strapped to the table but he thrashes anyway and several men in white lab coats need to hold him still. One even climbs atop his legs to keep him from jerking upward.

The doctor saws through flesh and muscle to get to the bone and Bucky’s screams of agony are the worst sound that he has ever had to listen to. Again. He remembers the effort had scraped his throat raw, screaming until his voice was gone.

The doctor only stops once during the procedure and Bucky has long since passed out from the pain by then. It’s to switch tools because the hacksaw isn’t cutting through the bone as efficiently as they’d hoped. An assistant returns with a portable Lesto saw and the doctor uses that instead.

The sound of the electric saw is just as sickening and Bucky watches the bone dust rise up around the doctor as he works. The saw is a little faster but it’s not a suitable tool either once he gets down to the socket.

The doctor uses cutters to remove the last of the bones of Bucky’s arm. Once he’s finished a different kind of doctor moves in to take his place, bringing the rest of his team with him and an array of tools. Bucky spots the metal arm amongst them.

This is the engineer that attached the prosthetic. He does not bother to check Bucky’s pulse. Just gets straight to work. The pointed disregard of his continued existence is just as horrific. He wonders not for the first time how many subjects Zola went through before he perfected the serum completely.

The sight of his unconscious body makes him swallow hard when the remains of his arm are being removed from the room. The camera remains steady as Zola moves in to inspect his work.

The first doctor approaches him and their conversation is captured on the video.

“Who is Steve?” the doctor wonders. “It is the only name that he screamed for.”

Bucky flinches violently.

“Steven Rogers,” Zola clarifies and the disdain is strong. “Captain America. A foolish plea. There will be no rescue.”

The video doesn’t end there but pans over towards the engineer at work rebuilding Bucky’s arm.

“You will be a fine machine,” the man says to Bucky’s unconscious body and he can’t watch anymore.

Bucky clicks out of the browser, shoving the laptop off his knees and onto the cushion next to him and darts to bathroom just in time to empty his stomach completely.

He hugs the toilet for an hour after that, shaky and staring at the white walls and drifting in an out of devouring horror and crushing relief. 

There are more videos out there too. The ones that focus on compliance, stripping away the man and rebuilding a mechanic soldier in its place. And Raenia said that she uploaded them all.

Is that all it took to drop the charges against him? For people to experience his pain for themselves in order to believe it?

Bucky crawls into the shower, fully clothed and sits there under the spray. It’s lukewarm at best but he doesn’t care. He needs to wash it all away.

There is no victory in this. No justice for himself or the people he killed. Bucky pulls himself to his feet eventually, struggling out of wet pants and a shirt that clings to his skin before adding them to his laundry basket. 

He’ll have to do washing tonight.

Bucky dries off, slips into warm clothes and reminds himself that he should eat something when hunger has not announced itself. He makes two pieces of toast and forces himself to consume the entire thing.

Once he’s finished, he takes the basket and heads down to the laundry room in the basement on weak legs that require him to pause more than once for rest. His energy is so low right now that he does not relish having to walk back upstairs again even if this task is worth it just to get out of his head for a little while. 

The booming sounds of the washer are soothing for once after he puts his clothes into them and waits there for the cycle to finish.

He wonders if people are sharing the videos, spreading them further across the web or if Internet sites are taking them down because of the disturbing content. He wonders if Steve has seen them yet and shudders, hoping nobody thought to show him.

The fact that Steve isn’t already banging on his front door means that Raenia probably didn’t let him know that Bucky’s was released. Either that or he just doesn’t care.

Or he’s giving Bucky space like he wanted.

None of those options make him feel better. He wishes he and Steve were past all this so maybe he’d have someone to crawl into bed with tonight. He feels drained and it would be nice to have someone now for comfort and closeness. Someone he feels comfortable enough to touch.

There aren’t many people on that list.

Bucky’s surprised that he doesn’t feel worse, that he isn’t curled up in a ball right now. The footage was sickening to watch but he’s long since distanced himself from any of the pain suffered at the hands of Hydra. It’s abhorrent but those kind of memories can’t hurt him anymore. It’s can't tear him apart like it used to.

The rattling washer finishes and Bucky throws his clothes in the dryer instead. He resolves not to watch any of Zola’s other available footage. It’s cruel to subject himself to it all over again when he already lived it once.

There’s no reason in re-watching his own trauma. Bucky leaves his clothes in the dryer and manages to make it up the stairs to his apartment. He cleans out the cupboards and eats a significant amount of food, barely allowing it to digest before deciding abruptly that he wants to go for a run.

It’s one in the morning but when he relocates his phone and texts Sam to ask there’s an immediate reply.

**Give me five minutes to get dressed. Meet at my place?**

Bucky agrees and gets changed. He runs faster than usual, just to use up some of the restless energy he’s had cooped up in a cell for several days and when he reaches Sam’s apartment, he’s a little lightheaded.

It might take another day to fix his diet again and start eating the right amount that he needs but luckily he hasn’t sustained too much damage. He should probably take it easy. And he will.

After the run.

Sam hasn’t even left his apartment yet, since Bucky ran all the way from Jackson Heights in under five minutes and he leans up against the building and waits, chest moving harshly in protest of the vigorous workout.

Two minutes later and Sam’s coming out of his building, looking surprised to see him standing there already but he pulls Bucky into a hug before he can prepare for it.

“I’m glad you got out,” he says and Bucky’s surprise fades away when he remembers that he was only just released from prison.

“Thanks,” he manages, but he’s not in the mood for talking right now.

He wants to run.

So they don’t speak. He keeps pace with Sam because he learnt his lesson pushing himself too hard earlier and they head down to Central Park together.

The exercise does him good and the fresh air seems like an uncommon and dreamlike gift as they run in the dark.

There aren’t many people around save for those still out partying and drifting between pubs and clubs and Bucky sees the exact moment when some of them recognise his face. When their mouths fall open and they studiously look away. Or whisper frantically to each other.

He can tell they’ve seen the videos just from their reactions alone and wonders if it’s going to be like this now for the rest of his life.

Sam distracts him by increasing his pace.

They stop and sit down eventually on a nearby park bench. Sam is breathing heavily and Bucky is a lot more out of breath than he should be.

“Is Steve staying at your place?” he wonders, because that’s the first place that he ran to before Sam’s apartment and Steve's apartment had been empty.

He’s no good at keeping away from Steve- even if he’s the one who asked for it in the first place.

Sam’s a little cagey with his reply. “No,” he says. “Tony locked him up at the Tower.”

“What?” he asks, voice cold and flat.

“He went rogue. Wouldn’t listen to reason. He was going to break you out of prison himself after Hydra blew up your lawyer’s car and the cops refused to let him see you. He wasn’t thinking with his head.”

Bucky can’t believe it. “Suspended and put on lock down. Steve’s not having a good couple of days.”

Sam makes a disbelieving sound. “You’ve got a weird way of looking at things considering what you've been through.”

He could’ve done without Sam’s heuristic approach to learning about what happened to him. Bucky sighs. “You watched the videos.”

“I flew Raenia into the Hydra base with Nat so she could have direct access to their servers in order to hack them.”

Bucky’s on his feet before he can think about it. “Nat took Rae to a fucking Hydra base? I asked her to look after her not drop her off in a den of snakes.”

Sam is not concerned. “It was practically abandoned. A skeleton crew. Raenia never even saw a Hydra agent once Nat was finished.”

“Why would you even _take_ that kind of risk?”

“Because the risk of a different outcome was higher. We weren’t gonna lose you. Steve would’ve come too if he hadn’t already stormed the precinct and been locked up.”

Bucky finds he can’t think of anything to say. He understands that they wanted to help him but to put themselves at risk for that-

He just doesn’t think it was worth it.

A sudden, draining fatigue settles over him and he feels infinitely more tired now and somehow more refreshed since he left the police station.

They walk back to Sam’s apartment and he ends up being too worn-out to make the trek home, showering at Sam’s place instead, borrowing a fresh pair of clothes. He crashes on Sam’s couch and hopes that when he heads back tomorrow his clothes will still be where he left them in the basement.

Or they’ve already been stolen and he’s worrying about nothing.

Sam heads to bed, already yawning and Bucky listens to him collapse atop his mattress and get comfortable before his breathing evens out into sleep.

Bucky doesn’t shut his eyes for another hour.

He gets two hours of sleep before the nightmare hits and it’s nasty enough that he wakes up straight away.

The sun hasn't even risen yet and when he checks the time it’s four o’clock. He gets up and leaves a note for Sam, fetching the plastic bag full of his running gear when he puts his shoes back on and lets himself out.

He’s absentmindedly letting his thoughts wander when it slowly drifts back toward the anonymous source that exposed him to begin with. The answer comes uninvited when he remembers his last day at the Institute. How his sleeves had been rolled up when he was cleaning and were still rolled up when he left carrying out the trash and passed Chad in the hallway. 

Chad. 

Chad who had lingered over what Bucky had thought at the time was the bags of garbage he was carrying. But he’d held them it in his left hand with his arm uncovered, the metal slash visible. 

There aren’t many people with metal arms that hang around the Avengers lately. Bucky’s not sure how Chad figured out his true identity but once he’d started digging into the connection between Jay and Steve, James Barnes would’ve emerged eventually. Considering the lengths Steve has gone to, to protect him, it was only a matter of time before somebody thought to look _back_ into the past instead of forward.

The night that Todd came round to his apartment with an embarrassing excuse just for a glimpse of Captain America also comes to his mind. Because Steve had called him Buck before he’d joined him at the door. Todd might not have put that together but it would have been more than enough for Chad to figure out the rest.

He clenches his hands into fists and remembers Chad’s threat a few days before when he’d said Bucky would regret not bringing Steve back to the Institute. He’d already been digging then, Bucky had just given him the final piece of the puzzle.

Guilt eats at him for ever suspecting Jacob and Hiroto but he should never have underestimated Chad to begin with. That was his mistake.

He plans to fix that.

Bucky heads home, goes to the basement first to see if his clothes are still there, which they are, astonishingly, and stalks back up to his apartment.

He finds the solution in the back of his fridge that Tony gave him to remove the false skin from his arm in the event that he wants to. He takes off his shirt and goes to stand in the bathroom, watching as the false cover somehow becomes unstuck after he applies the yellow liquid. The sleeve slides right off like a snake shedding skin.

It’s been a while since he’s seen his metal arm and he’s even more surprised to see the communist red star has also been removed. He’s not sure he remembers when he had that done but there’s no doubt that Tony helped him out with that too.

He fetches one of his black Henley’s and cuts off the left sleeve so that the metal of his arm is completely visible when he slips it on. He steps into black pants and boots, grabs a thick coat and sets back out into the night.

Knowing where Chad and Todd live is not a difficult task. Bucky already knows where all of the instructors live at the Institute because he broke into Chad’s office during his first week to find out. He hadn’t trusted any of his colleagues. 

At the time, he hadn’t realised he was searching for a sign of Hydra but hadn’t been able to relax until that extra information had been retrieved. 

Even if he never planned to use it.

He’s using it now.

Bucky breaks into Todd’s place first because even if he may not be certain that Todd tipped the press off about Bucky alone, he’s still a raging dick who makes women uncomfortable and does just about everything Chad says.

He sets his coat down on the kitchen table and spots the photograph on the counter of Todd with a woman who could only be his mother and wonders what she might have to say about his behaviour. If only she knew. Bucky does a quick sweep of the place before going into the bedroom. 

It’s a typical set up of a man living alone but is surprisingly much cleaner than Bucky would’ve given Todd credit for. 

There are a lot of weight sets stacked neatly in the corner of his living room where Todd probably works out at home, but there’s also a pile of carefully handled comic books that have been filed into several bookshelves opposite. 

Todd actually owns a record player and Bucky’s even more surprised to see some familiar artists like Glenn Miller, Bing Crosby, Ella Fitzgerald and Nat King Cole in the mix of sparsely collected vinyl. Todd has six shelves full of multiple records, well used by the lack of dust on the record player and Bucky can’t help but find Todd’s eclectic taste to be of some strange kind of interest. 

Bucky also recognises some of Chad’s clothing amongst Todd’s laundry basket in the bathroom and figures they must spend a lot of time together outside of working hours. That is not at all unusual to him since Bucky’s hardly ever seen them apart.

Once he’s done perusing the apartment, he locates Todd’s bedroom and the sleeping Todd curled up around his pillow, hugging it tightly to his chest while he dreams. He pats Todd’s cheek gently to rouse him.

“Hey Todd,” he mutters, slapping harder.

Todd awakens with a violent jerk and flinches at the sight of him, eyes falling towards the metal arm as he rolls to the opposite side of the bed, tangling himself in sheets to get as far away from Bucky as he can.

“Oh God,” he moans but doesn’t seem like he could even muster up a scream at the sight of the Winter Soldier in his bedroom.

Bucky dressed this way for a reason.

“You remember me right?” he asks conversationally, letting his metal fingers curl into a fist.

Todd can’t speak but somehow figures out how to nod his head slowly.

“Great. I remember you too and where you live. Nice place you got here by the way.”

The lines of Todd’s entire body are rigid with fear.

“So here’s the deal. You stop preying on women. You back off all of them you ever encounter. At the Institute, in the streets, in the clubs, in the supermarket anywhere you come across them. You don’t speak to them, you don’t hit on them, you don’t even look at them unless they explicitly express an interest in you first. Understand?”

Todd is already nodding his head frantically but is unbelievably confused by what’s happening and Bucky doubts that he’s actually following. The haze to his eyes suggests he's still half asleep and his brain hasn’t caught up with the situation yet.

“You do that,” Bucky continues slowly. “And I don’t come back. You follow?”

“Yes,” Todd says desperately. “Yes.”

“I’ll know if you don’t listen,” Bucky warns. “And I’ll be back. And trust me, Todd, you don’t want me to come back.”

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry.”

“Do better than sorry,” he says, stepping back.

“I will,” Todd promises, relieved now that it seems like Bucky’s leaving. “I will.”

Bucky exhales softly and hopes that’s enough as he leaves the place untouched, picking his coat back up as he goes. He doesn’t think that Todd is exactly a bad person but maybe he’s been led astray by Chad. Maybe he’s just acting out a script that people expect of him. 

Hopefully he is willing to do better and isn’t just saying that to save his own skin. Time will tell.

He leaves his visit with Chad for last because they’re gonna need to have a much longer talk. Since he was the mastermind of the whole thing. 

Chad lives in a flashy penthouse that has reasonably efficient security with a guard on duty in the lobby and none of that is a problem for Bucky.

Once he’s inside, the bedroom isn’t very hard to find. Chad has a lot more fascinating art and style indicative of a more in-depth individual than he typically advertised. Just like Todd. Or maybe he’s trying to appear as one, Bucky’s not entirely certain either way. 

A lot of the hectic mess about the place reminds him of Raenia and Tony’s apartments, the wild liveliness of a clever mind. 

Chad isn’t looking so clever right now though. Bucky impassively observes Chad’s artful spread across his silken sheets with some degree of disdain. 

“Hey Chad,” he whispers, leaning down and patting his face a lot harder than he did with Todd. “Time to wake up.”

To his credit, Chad throws a swing at the intruder before he realises who is standing over his naked body.

Bucky dodges the hit easily and Chad recoils in horror at the sight of him. The reaction is not new to him.

“You seem surprised,” he says, watching carefully for any sudden movements. Chad is less likely to be deterred from fighting by his fear than Todd was. “Did you think you were safe?”

He can’t seem to speak either and Bucky wonders if this is a thing for loud obnoxious men, losing their voice when something bigger happens to confront them.

“Remember how this feels,” Bucky says, prowling around Chad’s bedroom. “This is how you make women feel with your unwanted advances: trapped, powerless and unsafe in a world that they have every right to be in. Do you understand this feeling right now?”

Chad’s jaw clicks. “Yes.”

“Remember it. I’m going to tell you the same thing that I told Todd-“

The sudden, horrified widening of Chad's eyes at the mention of Todd is also unexpected. “What did you do to Todd?”

Bucky holds up his metal hand and all of Chad’s demands leave him at once, even as visible agitation rises within him. The genuine concern for Todd is almost strange; Bucky had assumed he didn’t think much of him beside his potential as a bootlicker.

“You are going to stop making women feel this way. You will not talk to them, you will not hit on them, you will not look at them unless a woman has explicitly expressed interest in being around you. And unless you change your behaviour, I can’t say that seems likely.”

“You can’t just-“

“You do this,” Bucky continues, talking over him. “And I don’t come back.”

Chad falls silent then, eyes lingering on Bucky’s metal arm as he comprehends the warning. No reason to beat around the bush about this.

“You’re smarter than I anticipated,” he continues. “I underestimated the lengths you’d go to for publicity. But I find out you didn’t listen and I’ll come back to make sure you get _exactly_ what you’re askin’ for. Only it won’t be the type of publicity you want.”

The message is unmistakeable and Chad pales. “Exposing people secrets, exposes yourself. You should remember that next time.”

He sucks in a sharp breath and Bucky can see that Chad knows exactly what he’s talking about. Bucky turns and stalks out of the room before he remembers.

“Oh, Jay Reiser resigns by the way,” he says, retrieving an envelope with his letter of resignation and setting it on the bed sheets. He sets his keys to the Institute on top of that. “I don’t need these either to get access to you. I have different methods. See you round, Chad, but for your sake, you’d better hope not.”

Chad lets out a choked out sound but the Winter Soldier is long gone.

 

  
  


 

Bucky feels better when he goes home afterwards. As if everything is a little more resolved than it was yesterday. He doesn’t like leaving things unfinished.

It’s still early yet and Bucky thinks if he skips his apartment and heads straight to the roof, he could probably be there in time to watch the sunrise. The idea seems satisfying right now.

He feels oddly calm about everything that’s happened. Better than he has in the last few days. Especially in regards to Steve and the trial and the videos.

He climbs the staircase leading to the roof and embraces the strain in his thighs from it. He’s still not back at full capacity but he’ll get there pretty soon. His body is designed to withstand pressure. Steve once mentioned that his metabolism is four times faster than an average human and Bucky doesn’t think his own body is so far behind. 

When he starts eating enough again and properly exercising, he’ll be fine.

Bucky makes it to the roof, soundlessly moving the broken door and closing it behind him before wandering over to his favourite sitting spot. He curls up and gets comfortable and the sky looks like it’s already starting to lighten up. He settles in with a content sigh, watching the world wake up around him. 

The sun is just barely starting to show itself when Bucky hears footsteps on the stairwell.

He dismisses it almost immediately because sounds echo in there and often seem closer than they are, especially if there are residents using the stairs like he does as an alternative to the elevator.

When the door opens a minute later, Bucky realises how wrong he was. His spot is hidden behind the vents and can’t be seen in the direct line of sight so he doesn’t move for a second or announce himself, hoping maybe somebody has come up for a quick smoke and figured out the door is unlocked.

He’s totally unprepared when Steve comes around the corner a second later. Bucky’s wrapped in his coat with his feet pressed against the vents in front of him and he’s startled by the resolute expression on his face.

He’s too surprised to be angry that Steve ignored his wishes to be alone, especially since he’s supposed to be locked up in the Tower. Even though the circumstances had changed when he turned himself in to the police, he’d still expected that Steve would try his best to follow through with Bucky’s request.

Steve always respects people’s wishes, always does the right thing. Which is why Bucky’s a little stunned to see him here.

And why he’s a little more surprised when Steve doesn’t instantly reach out to touch him.

“Steve,” he says because he can’t think of anything to say. “What-?”

“I thought you’d be up here,” he says, which is strange to Bucky since he’s never once mentioned this rooftop to Steve or ever brought him up here. “I came to find you and you hadn’t been in your apartment so I thought I’d go up. You always liked high places, even as we were kids. Then in the war. I didn’t think that would change. Sniper habits, you know?”

Bucky has no idea what is going on right now but Steve’s not wrong. He’s never really wrong when it comes to Bucky.

“What-?”

“No,” Steve says firmly and Bucky's eyebrow rises at the rigidity in his voice. “You didn’t give me a chance to talk at my apartment, you sprung it on me too fast to even think about stringing two words together-“

“I didn’t-“ he argues but Steve frowns him into silence.

“Buck, you’ve already given me an earful, now knock it off. I’m gonna talk for a bit.”

His words dry up. Not that he had planned to say much anyway.

“You were right. About a lot of things. I’ve never been good at askin’ for what I want. Always thought anything was too much and I didn’t wanna be a burden. I know you don’t think I can be selfish and that I still can’t ask for things but that’s where you’re wrong, Buck. I’ve been selfish my whole life and even then I’ve never been able to ask for what I’ve wanted the most. What I’ve always wanted.”

“Steve,” Bucky sighs. “Look you don’t have to-“

“I want you,” Steve says. “I’ve been stuck on you since we met, since you pushed me down on our bed in 1938 after another night at the dance halls with all those beautiful dames hanging on your every word and still, you came home with _me_ -“

Bucky exhales sharply because he knows exactly what Steve is talking about. What he’s finally talking about. Oh God.

“You’ve probably forgotten,” Steve says, a little embarrassed. “You were drunk otherwise you would’ve realised it was me when we were-“

His skin is changing colour and Bucky can only watch with fascination as Steve pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, uncertainly. “You’re the only one I’ve been with Buck and I had to trick you to do it.”

“You didn’t,” he vows. “I knew it was you all along, Steve. I was just desperate enough to pretend I didn’t notice. Drinking made me brave that’s all, but it’s something I regret anyhow.”

Steve’s expression twists and Bucky’s can’t live with the thought of him thinking he didn’t want every second of it.

“I regret that I didn’t treat you right,” he elaborates. “Jesus, I didn’t even _kiss_ you, Steve. I just took what I wanted cause I thought I’d never get the chance again. I didn’t even think if I was your first or that it meant more than just rutting in the dark. You weren’t just a warm body to me but it’s what I treated you like and that’s what I regret most.”

Steve relaxes a little. “I wasn’t really drunk either, Buck. I wanted to pretend too, that you could want me like that. But I didn’t think you did or that you ever would and that’s why I gave me and Peggy a chance.” 

“I was jealous of Peggy,” Bucky admits. “I didn’t want to like her but I couldn’t help it. She was perfect for you.”

This information isn’t new to Steve but his smile is rueful. “I don’t think you’re understanding what I’m getting at here, Buck. I have this habit of hoping things will just work out like they should because that’s how it’s always happened. I can ask for things when I’m Captain America because I know what needs to be done. But Erskine still found me by chance. Yeah, I kept trying to enlist but I would’ve been caught before long and in even more trouble than I started if it hadn’t been for that coincidence. And that’s how I’ve been living ever since, not asking for things but waiting for things to just fall into my lap.”

Bucky’s frowning because he’s not sure what Steve is trying to tell him.

“The problem with that though is that people end up taking a lot more than I should be giving just because I’m willing to help. Because I want to live in a better world for everybody else. I don’t know how to ask and the people I’ve been around only know how to take: the war, Hydra, SHIELD.”

“It’s why I’ve been butting heads with Nat lately,” he says. “Because I gave you what you wanted. I helped you forget even if it meant losing you and I didn’t handle that very well. But when I got you back again I was prepared to do anything to keep you around.”

“I took advantage,” Steve admits. “Of our closeness. I’d hoped that things would just fall into place for us eventually. But it didn’t work in 1938 and it wasn’t going to work for us now. I was stubborn about it. I wouldn’t listen to her. It wasn’t until she explained that if I didn’t start askin’ you'd never cross that line again that I finally started paying attention.”

“You only kissed me because you didn’t remember who I was, just like it was easier to pretend we were too drunk to know what we were doing. You know I’m not good at askin’ but you also know I’d do anything for you and I know you didn’t want to feel like you were taking advantage either. I was relying on circles to get us somewhere when I should’ve just come out with it already.”

He’s quiet long enough that Bucky figures he can say something. 

“When you told me I was confused about kissin’ you I figured that was your answer. That you didn’t wanna go there and risk our friendship. Then when I wanted to share my bed but you left early for that SHIELD assignment I just thought you were giving me the same answer. So I was trying to back off but then you were wearing my dog tags and keeping my sweaters and doing all these other intimate things that were getting me all messed up over you again.”

“I haven’t handled this well,” Steve confesses. “I should’ve just talked to you but we’ve been avoiding this since 1938 and I thought there was a reason neither of us brought it up. I was scared of losing you. But I wanna start askin’ now.”

Bucky’s smiling because it’s a good feeling to be finally talking about all of this even if he still has no idea what Steve is saying. What he’s trying to ask.

“What exactly are you askin’, Stevie?” he wonders.

“I love you,” he says and Bucky’s skin feels tight at the words. “I loved you then and I love you now and that’s never gonna change. I want us to be together.”

Bucky can’t believe that this is actually happening. That Steve is actually saying any of this right now. He didn’t think it was possible.

“I’m sorry that I let you think you were alone in this. If it’s too late, if I left it too long, I understand.”

God, Steve’s too heartfelt and sincere. Bucky loves him so fucking much for that. For actually checking to be sure that this is still what he wants.

“I still dreamt about you when I was Jay,” Bucky admits. “About 1938. I dreamt about you a lot.”

Steve’s eyes are dark and hungry. “Yeah?” he says, stepping closer.

“You fucked me in your uniform and I asked if you were keeping it.”

Steve shudders at the mental image before a sly grin slowly transforms his face. “You did actually ask me that once.”

Bucky holds his hand out and Steve accepts, allowing himself to be pulled in. He sits beside him and Bucky doesn’t let go of his hand. Instead, he brings it up to his mouth to taste his skin.

Steve exhales sharply and leans into his touch. It’s so simple after that to lift his chin up to find Steve’s mouth. To taste him there as well.

Steve’s lips are warm and soft and oh so open for him. Bucky pushes forward because he can’t help it and neither can Steve. This kiss is better than their first because it’s Bucky and Steve now. Not Steve and Jay. 

This is them. This is _real_.

Bucky surges closer, fingers sliding across Steve’s jaw, into his hair and wanting to draw this out as much as possible. He peppers soft kisses against Steve’s mouth, revelling in the way it makes his breaths shaky.

Ever since he came back from being the Winter Soldier he’s avoided the physicality of touch, hoarded his own personal space because contact unsettles him. Most of it comes from not being able to trust people’s intentions, but a lot of it stems from repossessing autonomy. An unwillingness to give any more than he’s prepared to.

When Steve touches him it doesn’t feel like he’s giving ground at all. It’s as natural as breathing as if his body doesn’t seem to recognise something separate from his own. His pulse spikes but it’s from the heat between them, the rush of arousal, not because somebody is in his space. But because Steve is.

Anticipation coils beneath his skin as they twine around one another, twisting closer together as Steve’s catches his jaw to kiss him deep and Bucky’s just as breathless at the heat of his mouth. Steve kisses like he does everything else, determined, and Bucky never wants him to stop but has to pull away to breathe eventually. Steve just chases after him, mouth on the sensitive skin of Bucky’s throat when he tilts his head back to gasp. 

“You shaved,” he murmurs into his skin and Bucky revels in the way it shakes for him.

“Yeah,” he says just as unstable. “So they wouldn’t recognise me so easy.”

The sunlight is slipping behind his eyelids but Bucky can’t even focus on the rising sun right now because Steve is sucking kisses onto his neck and his hand is braced on Bucky’s thigh.

This heat between them is much more amazing than anything he could ever have imagined. Bucky drops his hand to Steve’s, laces his fingers around his wrist just to keep up that connection between them as he nudges closer. Steve’s hand slides across leg and under his thigh before his other hand does the same and in the next second he’s lifting Bucky onto his lap, pulling him in as Bucky eagerly crowds closer.

He’s already hard, just from the thrill of being able to touch Steve like this and he can feel that Steve’s in the same predicament as he rocks his hips forward and groans.

“Bucky,” Steve murmurs and he doesn’t know if it’s a warning or encouragement when he does it again but the throatiness in Steve’s tone makes him shiver.

He stops rocking his hips and tries to stop his head spinning.

“I love you,” he says, burying his face into Steve’s chest and inhaling the smell of him. “In case you didn’t figure it out.”

Bucky’s fingers find his tags beneath Steve’s shirt and can’t help but trace them with his fingers. The way Steve’s made a lovers token of his name leaves him unable to think clearly.

“I’m not giving them back,” Steve tells him and his voice sounds huskier than Bucky expects, deeper, and pleasure quivers through him at the declaration.

He swallows hard at the sound of it, gripping Steve tighter. “Keep them,” he says. “They look better on you anyway.”

Steve’s smile is bathed in light and a million different colours that Bucky wants to commit to memory. “You tryna put the moves on me, Buck?”

He’s teasing him with a line Bucky’s used on him a while ago and he can’t help but laugh, grinding his hips down harder. “Guess I am.”

Steve’s muscles tense, mouth falling open in pleasure and Bucky surges forward to kiss him again because it’s all he can think about. God, this is too much, he can’t survive this. 

“Buck,” Steve moans, trying to get a word in between furiously thorough kisses. “Maybe we should head back to your place?”

Bucky can’t seem to stop his hips from moving, from seeking that inexplicably addictive friction between them. He wants to keep grinding on Steve’s lap until he comes but they’ve already done that before and he knows he can make it better. 

Make it the first time Steve deserves.

“Yeah, yeah,” he pants. “We should.”

Reluctantly, Bucky draws away and Steve lets him get to his feet before Bucky’s pulling Steve up after him and dragging him towards the door. They keep getting distracted walking down, pinning willing bodies against railings and walls and it takes much longer than it should to reach Bucky’s floor.

There’s a young man putting out a cigarette in the dead pot plant at the other end of the hall but he doesn’t look up and they pay each other no mind when they stagger past. Steve doesn’t let go of him, though Bucky half expected it as he fumbles with unlocking his door.

He eventually gets it open, half laughing, half stumbling into the apartment and when Steve releases him to turn around and lock the door behind them the mood abruptly sobers.

Because this is Steve and things are rapidly progressing towards the bedroom already. What the hell is he thinking?

“Maybe-“ Bucky starts, flushing. “Maybe we should slow down, Stevie.”

Steve’s skin is red and hot beneath his hand. “I don’t want to slow down,” he says, surprising Bucky with honesty again. “But if that’s what you want-“

“I don’t,” he hurries. “I just- I don’t want to move too fast. This is a big deal.”

“This is a big deal,” Steve agrees, stepping closer to slide his arm around Bucky’s waist. “But nearly 90 years of waiting isn’t moving too fast, Buck. I’d say it’s moving slow.”

Bucky grips Steve’s arm and cups the back of his neck with the intention of dragging him in. “You were not in love with me when I saved you from a bunch of bigger kids about to steal your money and kick your ass.”

Steve’s already leaning in without Bucky’s help. “Maybe I was. Maybe this has been a long time coming.”

“Just- God- touch me please.”

Steve leans in towards his ear. “Where?” he asks, nuzzling his neck and then tracing the skin with his tongue.

“Let me get some candles or something,” Bucky moans, fingers already grasping at Steve’s hair. “I can make it better than 1938.”

That makes Steve withdraw, frowning. “1938 meant everything to me,” he says. “Yeah, the circumstances could’ve been a little better, I’ll give you that but it was perfect because of who I was with, not because of what we were doing. I regret not being open about it but I don’t regret sharing that with you.”

“Neither do I,” Bucky says. “It’s just- you deserved better for your first time.”

“It was us, Buck,” he says. “It was enough for me just to be near you like that and I really don’t believe that people should assign so much pressure to virginity anyways.”

“No, I agree but I just hate feeling like I used you. That I was too much of a coward to even cuddle you after.”

Steve smiles, gentle and understanding. “I slept in your arms most nights anyways,” he says. “We just didn’t talk about that either.”

Bucky vaguely realises that Steve means it. They held each other a lot, and he’d used to reason that it was easier to sleep on the small mattress that way. He was in denial even then.

He kicks out of his shoes and watches as Steve bends low to do the same, before setting them by the wall.

Steve steps into his space again and Bucky starts moving backwards, leading him towards the bedroom. “We’ve gotta make sure we stop doing that,” he insists. “I wanna talk about everything with you.”

The back of his knees hit the mattress and they tumble onto the bed together, Bucky’s arm twisting out and hitting the sweater he left on the mattress. Steve’s skin turns blotchy.

“Were you sleeping with this?” he wonders, curious and warm beneath the bulk of Steve’s weight.

“Yeah,” he admits, quietly. “It smelled like you.”

Bucky rolls his hips upwards just to feel the bite of that friction between them again. The sound of Steve’s groan excites him like nothing else, especially the sight of him biting his lip before moving with him. Their bodies seem to know this dance already and he clutches Steve tighter as his eyelashes flutter at the sensation. 

If he comes now he won’t get to touch Steve first and that’s not a sacrifice he’s prepared to make. Bucky gets his fingers underneath Steve’s shirt and raises any eyebrow.

“Can I?”

Steve nods his consent and Bucky starts tugging at the material. They separate a little in order to divest themselves of more clothing. Bucky’s heart is in his throat when Steve finally wriggles out of his shirt.

Bucky leans up to kiss all of the exposed skin, fingers brushing against a nipple and grinning when Steve hisses sharply before pushing at his chest in order to encourage Bucky out of his shirt as well. They’re both breathing heavily despite the fact that it takes much more than this to properly exert them.

“Bucky,” he moans, dropping down again and wrapping his arms around him tightly.

He doesn’t skirt around Bucky’s metal arm like everybody else, just treats it as another extension of his body as he grips him tight. His hand presses between them, reaching down to cup the waistband of Steve’s jeans, humming in question.

Steve’s mouth moves against his jaw. “Yeah. Please.”

The eagerness in those two words makes Bucky fumble with the buttons. The slide of a zipper sounds sharp amidst their harsh panting and the soft murmurs of pleasure make him dizzy with anticipation.

Steve tries to work his hand between them also but they’re pressed too tightly together. Bucky laughs at the forming crease of frustration on his forehead and works on unzipping his own pants. But Steve only laughs too as he gets his thigh between Bucky’s leg and then Bucky stops laughing in exchange for a drawn out sigh of approval at the sudden increased friction. 

“Steve, c’mon.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, and shimmies down Bucky’s body to help tug his jeans off.

Bucky lift his hips up and can’t stop staring at the image of Steve hovering over the constricted bulge of his erection. Especially when he finally manages to get him into only his underwear.

He waits for Steve to get out of his pants as well until they’re on equal footing. They roll across the mattress together and Bucky kisses as much of Steve as possible like he’s making up for every lost minute of 1938.

There’s something so easy about this, lying together, trading soft, lingering kisses in only their underwear. 

Heat spreads between their bodies but Bucky’s body is heavy with a soft languor as they curl around one another. His skin feels tight, his heart wanting to escape the confines of his ribcage and Bucky never wants to leave his bed.

Until Steve’s fingers are trailing pointedly down his chest and pausing at the material of his underwear. 

“Can I?” he asks, one hundred per cent serious and Bucky flushes with heat at the question, at Steve paying him the same kind of respectfulness that he does for anybody bothering to give him the time of day.

He feels embarrassingly pleased at the attention, soaking up Steve’s sincerity even in this and hoping to coax more of that unabashed kindness and admiration. When Bucky swallows heavily and nods, Steve peels away his underwear with a kind of reverence that Bucky can feel in his fingers and he’s already sensitive with the need to come.

Steve stares at his cock, though they both know they’ve seen each other naked before. Only now does he take his time to appreciate it properly. Bucky’s pre-come has already soaked his briefs and he’s about to make a joke about Steve wanting to draw it since he’s taking so long before he ends up trailing his finger carefully through the slit, savouring Bucky’s soft curse at the sensation. 

Then he brings it to his mouth to taste.

Bucky can’t find any words to describe what that does to him.

“I wanna suck you,” Steve asks openly and Bucky groans, hips twitching with the effort to keep himself still or just rut against Steve until his orgasm overwhelms him.

“Yeah? You sure? I’ve been tested. I’m clean.”

“You went and got tested?” Steve repeats, surprised. “You gave a sample of your blood? The serum that Zola synthesised from Erskine’s design?”

Bucky grimaces. “I didn’t know that at the time. The samples were conveniently ‘lost’ and the Doctor resigned before I got my results back. SHIELD must’ve still been monitoring me.”

Steve frowns and kisses Bucky’s hipbone. “Nobody told me anything.”

“Maybe they were respecting my privacy for once.”

Steve is sceptical and unconvinced, expression shifting with disapproval but not for Bucky, towards SHIELD. “Or theirs.”

Bucky’s thinking about that other Doctor, the one who was overly interested in collecting another sample of his blood and worries maybe that problem didn’t sort itself out either. 

He thinks maybe he killed the mood by worrying Steve with this but Steve doesn’t wait for anything else before leaning down and taking Bucky into his mouth. He swallows him down and after that Bucky stops thinking altogether. He can tell Steve’s never done this before but that doesn’t matter to either of them. It’s amazing because it’s Steve and it better because Bucky can tell how curious and enthusiastic he is about it.

The heat of Steve is unbearable, the scorching warmth and the scrape of tongue on the underside of his cock and Bucky thinks he’s going to come already.

Then Steve hollows out his cheeks and sucks, throat constricting around him and Bucky’s hands are in his hair, cursing and fumbling to keep his grip on the world.

“Steve,” he pants, collapsing back against the pillows and clutching the air.

He seems to realise what Bucky’s looking for because Steve catches the hand that’s scraping for purchase, for something to ground him and tangles their fingers together. Steve braces his other hand on Bucky’s thigh and takes him deeper and he doesn’t think he can take much more than this.

“Steve. I’m gonna-“

Steve looks up, catching his eye but doesn’t stop. Bucky grips his hand tighter and doesn’t look away as his body chases that crest, allowing the pleasure to build. The muscles in his stomach tighten before he jerks forward and comes. Steve doesn’t pull away or avert his eyes, swallowing around Bucky’s cock before easing off of him.

He shivers through the aftershocks, sensitive and gratified as he weakly tries to tug Steve closer. Orgasms make him all loose-limbed and relaxed, vigour seeping out of him and he’s sinking back into the mattress with a soft noise. One orgasm isn’t enough to make him soft, especially when he’s around Steve, who’s still painfully hard and eager to be touched. 

Bucky really wants to do something about that. Steve climbs astride his hips and before he’s properly settled, Bucky’s already wrapping a hand around him.

Steve groans and reaches over Bucky’s head to rummage through the second drawer, retrieving lube that Bucky never told him was there.

“How’d-?”

“You still got some of the same tricks. Different lube, though.”

Bucky would beg to differ but he purposely relaxes his grip and pulls away to wet his hand with saliva, slicking it up before he takes Steve’s cock in hand again. He knows Steve’s plenty familiar with this himself, even caught him beating off a few times when they shared an apartment together but he wants to try everything with Steve that he can and this is no different.

Steve hums distractedly, cursing softly at the stimulation and Bucky grins into his shoulder when he has to keep stopping his search because of what Bucky is doing to him. How he’s touching him right now. He must be doing something right because he especially likes the way Steve's body shudders.

“Buck, geez, you’re killing me here,” he groans, thrusting erratically into Bucky’s hand before he finally reaches out and reclaims the bottle.

Bucky’s on his second wind now, perking up as he leans upward to lick at Steve’s jaw. 

“Am I?” he wonders innocently as Steve flicks open the cap and squirts lube into his hand.

Steve reaches down and wraps a hand around Bucky’s, linking their fingers and smearing lube between them around his dick. They work out a rhythm together and Bucky has to press forward to kiss the sounds from Steve’s mouth because he can’t help it.

They sound so good together. Steve’s other hand rests against Bucky’s chest right where his heart is thrumming away and in the next second he’s pushing Bucky back down onto the mattress until he’s hovering over him, hands working in a rhythm.

“I want you to fuck me,” Bucky murmurs and Steve’s pushing his cock up against his own, uncurling Bucky’s hand before slotting them together and fitting his hand around both of their erections.

Bucky hisses and moves to wrap his hand around them as well. 

“I’m close,” Steve whispers into his throat.

“Yeah, Stevie? C’mon. Show me.” 

Bucky lets go and grips Steve’s hips instead, urging him on and rolling their bodies. 

A second later Steve comes, spurting across Bucky’s chest and he gets to witness the way Steve’s mouth falls open and his entire frame relaxes at once. It’s more breathtaking than he imagined.

That is until Steve opens his eyes again and sees the mess that he made of Bucky’s torso. His face scrunches up slightly as if he’s embarrassed and Bucky doesn’t want him to feel like that at all. Not around him.

“Sorry,” he says, flushing. “I should’ve-“

“Hey,” Bucky interrupts him, voice tender. “This is perfect. At least we made it out of our trousers this time.”

“That _is_ true,” Steve agrees with a laugh, fingers trailing Bucky’s inner thigh and eliciting a shiver. “You look good like this. Now what was that you said about me fucking you?”

“You got another round left in you, old man?” Bucky teases, but Steve’s just as hard as he is.

This is a mutual effect of their serums that he can absolutely get behind. Thinking of all that potential only makes the pleasure seem more intense.

“Or two or three,” Steve offers modestly and his fingers are drifting beneath Bucky’s balls.

His breath hitches at the first touch to his hole, Steve’s fingers slick with lube and skating lightly across his entrance as if he's teasin' him with the sensation. But one look at his face and it's clear Steve's got no control over this either. He's not even focused on his hand to see what it's doing; eyes watching Bucky’s face, and the way it shifts when he presses a solid finger inside him.

“Oh, God,” he groans, throaty and amazed at the feel of Steve gently pushing inside.

It's good. Too good. Steve’s thoughtful and precise in everything that he does and this is no different. He stretches Bucky carefully, adapting to the way his body opens up under the probing touches, the minute reactions.

Bucky hisses sharply when Steve presses a second finger inside to join the first and instantly locates his prostate. He jerks upwards, unsure if he’s leaning into the touch or away from it because it feels so unbelievable. Steve sees the reaction and keeps his fingers on the spot, pressing harder and Bucky’s frozen all of a sudden as if Steve’s anchored him down to this one place in the universe.

“Have you-“ he gasps, struggling to speak through the haze of pleasure. “Done this before?”

Steve grins, pressing another finger into him. “I got a lot of tips from some helpful folks that I marched with during the LGBTQIA parade and it made me curious.”

“You fingered yourself?” Bucky demands, breathless. “Shit. Was it good for you? What were you thinking about?”

“Buck,” Steve mutters and his skin is flushed. “Yeah, yeah, Christ, it was so good. I was thinkin’ bout me and you and how great it would be to finally touch you like this.”

“Yeah?” he pants, moving against Steve’s fingers now, rolling his hips. “How does it feel?”

Steve nudges closer so that Bucky can feel the rigid heat of his cock pressing against his thigh when he leans down to kiss him.

“It feels,” he says after pulling away. “Like I’m gonna shoot before I even get inside you.”

“Do it,” Bucky begs, reaching for him desperately when Steve’s fourth finger touches his rim before pressing inside to join the others. “Then fuck me after. No rubber.”

That makes Steve groan, fingers pulling out and leaning back as he comes, semen splattering across Bucky’s balls and ass. The sensation of it jolts through him and Bucky cries out at the sensation of Steve’s come against his skin, he’s probably covered in it by now and it’s still not enough.

“Steve, Steve,” he demands, seizing his thighs and trying to pull him closer while he’s still coming.

Steve seems to get the message because he tilts his hips down, and lines up, pressing his cock in deep and right where Bucky wants him, cock wet with come as he twitches through his orgasm.

Bucky scrabbles to get his hand on the back of Steve’s neck, clutching at his hip and watching the way the pleasure makes his eyes go hazy, face slack. Even after a second orgasm he still hasn’t gone soft and Bucky can’t focus on anything beyond the feeling of them connected.

“You okay?” Steve pants, when some of the fog leaves his eyes. 

He hasn’t moved yet and that’s probably Bucky’s biggest problem right now. He nods and rocks their hips together experimentally just to see how it will feel. He’s close already but Steve’s still sensitive and air hisses through his teeth before he’s cupping Bucky’s face and withdrawing.

Bucky doesn’t know what he was expecting but Steve’s first thrust pushes the bedframe up against the wall, the legs scraping sharply against the floor and almost throwing him unwittingly into a second orgasm.

“Fuuuck,” he groans, long and low and Steve looks startled and wildly aroused.

“Shit,” he curses. “Sorry. I should-“

“No. Don’t hold back,” he begs, sensing what he’s about to say. 

Steve’s strength is riveting, especially if he’s so overcome that he can’t focus on keeping it under control.

Bucky can relate, he has the same issues with his own power, particularly in his metal arm, but somehow he knows they’re not gonna hurt each other like this. Their bodies are made to take a beating and this is just a different, much more pleasurable battle of wills.

Steve bites his lip, overwhelmed, and slips his fingers through Bucky’s hair in order to cradle his head, arm wrapping around his back for something to hold onto. He doesn’t thrust like he did the first time, doesn’t pull out far enough for that level of force to generate and rocks their bodies together firmly, staring openly into Bucky’s face.

The intimacy astonishes as well as frightens him. 

In all the times he’s slept with people it’s never felt like this. He hasn’t stared deeply into their eyes while they fuck. Has never really been focused on the beauty of their shifting expressions rather than the welcoming rush of an orgasm. But right now he is. He’s never been so fixated on Steve’s face like this, the rippling blue of his eyes as their bodies move gently in tandem.

Urgency steals the languid pace from them when Bucky grips Steve’s ass and tries to encourage him to let go.

“Steve,” he gasps. “Harder. Stop acting like your gonna break me.”

Steve’s eyebrows furrow and Bucky can’t help but laugh and drag him forward for a hungry kiss, even as Steve’s arms tighten warningly around him, the first sign of his fierce strength restrained beneath all that muscle.

Carefully, he pulls out and slams back inside, the friction electrifying Bucky’s blood as the bed rattles again. It’s nothing close to the strength of that first thrust but Bucky finds he’s spiralling closer to his orgasm anyway. Especially when Steve’s switches the rapidity of his movements for sharp and precise thrusts that mean Bucky can’t think straight.

His metal hand grips Steve’s hipbone just on the verge of too tight and the force behind Steve’s movements increases as his restraint begins to unravel. They chase their pleasure together and Bucky flings his metal fist out with a groan when Steve nails his prostate again and accidentally smashes the lamp on the bedside table with it.

They ignore the crinkle of shattered glass in favour of the groaning of the bed frame and the heady moans and exchanged kisses before Bucky abruptly comes, across both of their chests since they’re pressed so tightly together and Steve fucks in with a sharp groan when his body tightens around him.

He slows down as Bucky fizzes with satisfaction, soft and relaxed in enjoyment but nudges Steve encouragingly to keep going when he can think again. He’s sensitive and strung out but that just makes it better when Steve resumes, pressing their foreheads together and rocking their hips in an easy, unhurried manner. 

It’s sappy and sweet and Bucky relishes every goddamn second of it when Steve moves gently with him.

Bucky watches Steve’s eyes widen briefly, lips falling open just before he comes and it’s the most exquisite thing that he’s ever witnessed, even when Steve collapses on his chest afterwards, burying his face into his neck with a fulfilled groan. He can feel the slide of Steve’s come inside him and shudders at the sensation of it when he slowly pulls out.

It draws a low sound from the both of them, oversensitive and worn out, but he’s never felt better.

Steve’s heavy, though not enough to be a problem and Bucky cards his fingers through his sweaty hair, feeling so content and satiated that he almost can’t believe this is real. That it's happening right now.

“I love you. God, Steve, so fucking much,” he murmurs, holding Steve in his arms and feeling breathless with it.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” Steve manages, echoing Bucky’s thoughts. “I loved you before I even knew what love is.”

Bucky doesn’t give a shit about the mess they’ve made of each other, of the bed, of the sheets, he just pulls Steve in tighter and lets his eyes fall shut, a smile stuck on his face like a captured instant in time.

He’s going to remember this moment for the rest of his life.

Steve kisses his throat with all the kindness and softness he never thought he deserved and he sighs into the sensation, heart full of possibility.

It’s easy to fall asleep like that, wrapped tight around each other's bodies, tucked into their own safe corner of the world.

 

  
  


 

They wake up a couple hours later and only marginally regret leaving themselves in such a state. The dried come makes it uncomfortable to separate but Bucky’s not too bothered by it and Steve’s just grinning relentlessly at him when they stumble into his bathroom.

They climb into the shower together, hands roaming, mouths tasting and Bucky’s hard again before Steve even really starts touching him.

“I quit,” he says abruptly and Bucky stops what he’s doing instantly and draws away.

“What?”

“I quit being Captain America,” Steve repeats, breathlessly. “I’m too compromised by my own feelings. You must have heard me try to use my own status to gain access to you at the station and circumnavigate the law.”

Bucky nods but he doesn’t understand how that could have influenced Steve’s decision at all.

“I’m not doing it for the right reasons anymore,” he says. “Now it just feels like fulfilling a duty. I’m not a vital asset to the success of SHIELD’s goals, which I haven’t always agreed with in the past anyway. So I’ve removed myself from combat missions because they take me too far from you and I don’t want to waste a minute of what we have when we’ve lost so much already. I’m staying on as an advisor to SHIELD, trainer and a reserve Avenger if there’s ends up being another world-wide emergency.” 

Water runs down his chin but Bucky barely pays it any attention not when he’s focused entirely on what Steve’s saying. “Are you doing this cause of me? After all the things I said?”

“No,” he promises. “Not really. I’ve just been thinking it’s not enough lately you know? There’s always gonna be another bad guy to stop. The world hasn’t really changed so much since I went under and I don’t wanna be doing this for the rest of my life, watching people die, never being good enough to stop it and always thinking that if I’m gonna take my last breath it’ll be when I’m five million miles away from you.”

A shudder goes through him at the thought. “If this is what you want, then you know I have no problem with it.”

Steve crowds him up against the slick tiles and kisses him hard on the mouth. 

“I want to open a studio,” Bucky admits abruptly when Steve rocks back on his feet to duck under the spray. “To teach anyone who needs to know how to defend themselves in an environment that makes them feel safe and respected.”

“I have money,” Steve offers. “Not a lot but all those years of service accrued a pretty sizeable government backpay. You received a similar amount when you returned to the U.S as Bucky but you didn’t want a cent of it. You gave it all to me but I kept it in a trust for you, untouched.”

The memory of it doesn’t come easy to him because that period when he was back home with Steve and plagued by the mire of hopelessness and crushing guilt hasn’t been easy to remember. And there’s a strong part of Bucky that doesn’t want to remember it all anyway. Recovery hasn’t been an easy process and even now Bucky still thinks he has a way to go.

He remembers though, not wanting the money. 

It had made him nauseous, the idea that the U.S government intended to pay him for all of the kills he’d made during the war. At the time, there had been no difference between the kills he’d made then and the kills he’d made as the Winter Soldier. The fact that the government was willing to pay him for it only tainted his thoughts on the matter. 

He’d given it all to Steve because Steve was the only person he’d trusted to do something good with it. But he'd expected him to donate it to a charity or something not keep it.

Now, Bucky’s not sure what he thinks about having that kind of money lying around. Except that maybe there’s a lot of good that he could do with it.

“I want to do that,” he says. “I didn’t think I’d be much of a teacher but it turns out I’m pretty good at it. I want to teach self-defence where I can do things my way and I- want to help people who have ever felt like me.”

Steve’s fingers curve around Bucky’s jaw before sliding down his neck and gently digging them into his collarbone. “We can do that, Buck,” he says. “I promise we can make that happen.”

“What-“ he hesitates, and swallows before continuing. “What are you planning to do now you’re retired?”

“I don’t know,” Steve admits. “I guess I’ll have the time to finally figure that out.”

So much has changed for him. For them both. He can’t wrap his head around it. Bucky’s hand trails along his skin, feeling the firmness of muscle there. “I’m glad. You deserve to get the things you want.”

Something hungry emerges amidst Steve’s smile as he crowds in closer, pushing their bodies together. “Oh yeah?” he murmurs, pressing his face into Bucky’s throat. “What if I want you to fuck me?”

A tremor ripples across his skin. “I think I can manage that.”

Steve makes a soft sound and to Bucky’s utter astonishment presses his body up against the tiles, hands bracing on the wall and glancing over his shoulder at him.

“What? Here?” he checks, staggered. “Wouldn’t you rather- in a bed?”

“Don’t care,” Steve murmurs, eager and breathless. “Can’t wait.” 

Bucky ducks out of the shower and opens the cupboard beneath the sink to retrieve a bottle of lube stashed there. When he returns, Steve is still standing up against the wall and Bucky’s hard at the sight of it when he presses up against him, fingers roaming against Steve’s back.

“Steve-“ he starts, unsure even after he’s coated his fingers with lube and set the bottle down next to the shelf full of shampoos and conditioners.

“Please. Are you gonna give me what I want?”

“Jesus,” Bucky groans, pushing his face into the dip between Steve’s shoulders. “Okay, gimme a sec.”

Bucky rubs his hands together to warm the lube up before he sliding them between Steve’s cheeks and locating his entrance. He presses against the rim, slowly rubbing and helping Steve’s body adjust to the pressure but his body opens up beneath him and his finger slides easily inside, right up to the knuckle.

There’s a sharp hitch in his breath when Steve groans and presses his forehead harder against the cool tiles. His hand reaches behind to grip Bucky’s hip encouragingly and keep him close. Bucky works him open leisurely, heart in his throat as the steam fogs up the air around them, making it harder to breathe.

“Jesus, Buck,” Steve groans when he adds another finger.

“You okay?” he wonders, fingers stilling instantly.

Steve makes a frustrated sound and rocks his hips against him. “Don’t stop.”

Bucky kisses his wet skin, sliding another finger inside. “I won’t.”

He braces himself once he’s certain Steve is ready and withdraws his hands, using his metal fingers to slick up his cock. He waits until Steve is twisting his neck and reassuring him with a soft sound, grip tightening on Bucky’s hip and trying to drag him in.

“You ready?”

“Yes, yeah,” Steve promises, pushing back into Bucky’s hands when he carefully lines himself up and starts to press inside.

Steve’s unbearably warm and his body feels incredible. When he finally pushes in deeper, Bucky’s already panting openly against the back of his neck. Steve’s body welcomes him so easily that Bucky needs to scramble for something to hold onto, the slickness of the tiles and Steve’s skin making it nearly impossible to stay upright.

“You good?” he asks, once he gets his breath back and Steve releases a soft sound as he shifts, experimentally clenching around him.

“Yeah,” he mutters, already moving his hips as Bucky hisses at the sensation.

He waits another second just to be sure before surging deeper, revelling in Steve’s harsh groan of pleasure and the way he widens his stance to let Bucky in. 

The air is humid around them and Bucky savours the slickness of their bodies, the tight, burning heat of Steve around him as he works his hips languidly. He draws it out as long as possible, grinding deep without thrusting just to build up the tension and maybe tease Steve out a little.

He feels so good, Bucky’s surprised he hasn’t come already and it’s hard to ignore the shifts in his body that announce the phantom sense of Steve’s cock inside him. He knows usually there should be time before he lets Steve back inside him, enough to let his body adjust and relax but he already wants Steve to fuck him again. Maybe it’s one of the advantages of having super serum, he might not need the same refractory period as a regular man.

Bucky sucks a hickey onto the back of Steve’s neck, panting harshly when Steve starts jerking hard against him, rolling his body against Bucky’s cock as a substitute to the thrusts he’s not giving him.

His slippery hands drop from the tiles and seize Steve’s hips, stilling the movement and he can't help but love the way Steve makes a frustrated, highly aroused sound.

“You teasin’ me, Buck?”

Bucky reaches around Steve to press his thumb against his cock, sliding along the wet skin there and feeling Steve shudder against him.

“You know I am,” he says. “Wanna make this last.”

“That’s not-“ Steve arches his hips into Bucky when he thumbs the tip of his slit. “Not gonna make me last.”

Bucky encircles Steve’s cock completely with his hand, feigning surprise. “It’s not? What if I do this?”

He grips Steve tighter, applying pressure that he sorely needs and Steve convulses in his hold, pushing his hips back hard, forcing Bucky’s cock in deep as he tries to thrust against him.

Bucky applies only a fraction of the strength in his metal arm to hold him still just to see what Steve will do and he doesn’t disappoint. Steve groans low and throaty and extends his neck, straining to push back harder. The sight of it is exquisite.

“C’mon, Buck,” Steve groans, fingers grasping the jut of Bucky’s hipbone and encouraging him into a faster rhythm. 

He can’t help but give him what he wants, pulling out just so he can thrust in hard, edging Steve into the wall with the strength behind his moving hips. The pace between them gets lost in the slick frenzy of heat and water and moving bodies.

He tries to hold off, for Steve to come first but the pleasure is building between them too quickly and he knows he’s not going to last for much longer.

“Steve, Steve,” he starts, trying to warn him but Steve curses, body clenching around him as he comes unexpectedly.

Bucky moans, chasing the same pleasure. It only takes two more thrusts into Steve’s body, now lax in the aftermath of orgasm before he comes as well.

They slump against the tiles together. Bucky pants into the expanse of Steve’s skin, vision dancing as he tries to catch his breath back. He pulls out a moment later, slow and gentle and mindful of Steve’s reaction when he does so.

But Steve only sighs contentedly when Bucky encourages him beneath the water, helping him clean up the mess they made. The sight of his come leaking out of Steve does something to him and he swallows heavily before scooping up two handfuls of water and letting it roll down Steve’s body.

Steve turns around and his eyes are tired and warm, skin flushed as he leans in to kiss him. Bucky ignores the running water in favour of the close intimacy between them, the light, lazy kisses.

Once they’re clean they towel off together and Bucky lends Steve clothes to wear, swallowing hard when Steve only steps into a pair of Bucky’s clean underwear. It’s not an exact fit, but the fabric tightens around Steve’s body in a way that’s very distracting.

They don’t bother to change the sheets, just climb straight under the covers and Steve opens his arms expectantly to allow Bucky to slip into them. The lack of hesitation between them now leaves his chest light, sighing at the feeling of warmth and safety in this closeness.

“We should go on a date,” Steve says abruptly, the tenor of his voice humming against Bucky’s skin.

He laughs even though he knows that Steve isn’t kidding. He’s sickeningly genuine about all of this and Bucky’s loving every second of it.

“Why? You gonna treat me right?” he teases, poking Steve’s chest whilst pushing forward to nuzzle his neck and bite the soft skin there.

Steve hugs him tighter and makes a contented sound.

“You know I am,” he says. “Always.”

Bucky can’t helped but be thrilled by the idea even as he reaches down to palm Steve’s ass. “I think we skipped a few steps.”

Steve’s amused laugh peters out into a groan that tells Bucky he’s more or less in agreement. Not that either of them regret a thing.

“I did try you know,” Steve confesses a moment later.

Bucky’s distracted by the sound of Steve’s heart, beating out a regular rhythm but stills at the words, forehead wrinkling in confusion.

“What?”

“It was stupid,” he says. “But when I invited you to dinner at Rolf’s I kinda had it in my head that maybe it was a date or what a date might be like with you.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow, amazed and flattered. “But everybody else was there.”

“They weren’t meant to be. Nat figured out what I was doing, treating you like my boyfriend without talking to you about it first. We argued about it. That was when she tried to tell me it wouldn’t work out like that, that if I wanted you to go on a date I’d have to ask.”

That’s not at all what he would’ve guessed their argument was about. 

All this time he thought he was the only one pushing things and it turns out Steve was just as bad. Bucky doesn’t know what to say but he thinks he can understand why Steve was so upset that night. He’s been plenty frustrated by his feelings as well and things not going how he expected.

“I think maybe I was hoping to talk to you about it then,” he admits. “About how I feel about you but once Nat figured out my approach wasn’t so great she crashed the dinner and brought the rest of the team.”

It’s a nice feeling, knowing that Natasha went out of her way to protect Steve from doing something stupid. And maybe she was protecting Bucky as well. She was probably right. Bucky’s not sure how he would’ve handled Steve talking about their feelings for the first time in a public restaurant. He thinks not well.

“I was hoping it was a date too,” Bucky concedes. “But Natasha was right. It’s better that we started this way instead.”

Steve is a little more than startled by the statement. He’s thinking about where Bucky was twenty-four hours ago. “You can still say that after everything that’s happened?”

But that’s the thing. It’s out there now. No going back. Elvira posted his testimony online. Hydra can’t hack the entire Internet. Usually that kind of scrutiny would make him nervous but there’s a soft kind of relief to it that he’s only just beginning to appreciate. 

Bucky only shrugs and buries his face into Steve’s chest with a sigh. “Yeah I can.”

That’s not a lie either. He means that. Steve dips his head low and Bucky can feel his lips in his hair and doesn’t know what to do about this intimacy. It seems like it could overwhelm every inch of him. Burn him up from the inside in the best way.

“So are we going steady now?” he wonders, after a beat, half teasing but body tensed against the threat of disappointment.

Steve can still say no. In fact, Bucky wants him to if he this isn’t what he planned for.

“If you want,” he starts automatically and Bucky winces before Steve realises what came out of his mouth, grimacing at himself. “I mean, it’s what I’ve wanted for a long time, Buck. The chance to be happy with you.”

Oh, hell what can he say to that? Bucky’s chest feels too full for words.

“я люблю тебя,” he whispers, fully aware that his voice shakes with it.

Steve doesn’t understand Russian very well but he does understand Bucky and that’s all he needs to translate.

“Je t’aime,” he replies softly, fingers trailing through Bucky’s hair now. "tellement mon amour."

This still seems unreal somehow. Bucky has no idea how they got here because he was so sure that this was a place they’d never be able to reach. Neither of them speak for a while but Bucky knows it’s because the both of them are savouring this moment, just lying here with nothing to do but hold each other. 

A thrill passes through him when he remembers that they really don’t have to do anything at all. As of now, both of them are currently unemployed and Steve will be safe. As safe a Steve can be, that is, as himself. Bucky will take whatever he can get.

For once, he can see a future to look forward to. He couldn’t see it during the war and he sure as hell couldn’t see it when he’d come back to Steve still reeling from his role as the Winter Soldier.

But now he can. Now the world seems full of possibilities. For the both of them.

Bucky’s not a heavy sleeper and neither is Steve. They get by on a minimal amount of hours a night mostly because nightmares and the reality of danger keeps them sleeping fitfully. His body has been programmed for high alertness and hyper vigilance. He doesn’t relax as much as a regular person can, not even around Steve. He can’t.

It’s unusual for them to nap during the day but Bucky shuts his eyes to the soothing rise and fall of Steve’s chest and lets his thoughts float away. Steve’s sleep patterns are only vaguely similar but he can relax a lot more than Bucky can because his breaths even out pretty quickly and he sinks into sleep. 

Bucky listens to his heart beating, the even steady breaths and makes a melody out of his shifting ribcage. He’s warm and safe and feeling so, so loved that he falls after him almost instantly. 

 

  
  


 

They’re both still in a contented doze when somebody starts banging on the front door. 

Bucky’s out of the bed and on his feet before Steve even opens his eyes and he can’t help the swell of feelings when Steve groans and extends his arms in a plaintive invitation for Bucky to crawl back into bed and ignore them.

It’s dark outside and a glance at his alarm clock says its almost six o’clock. The emptiness of his stomach is a reminder that he should be eating something. That the both of them should probably be eating something.

The banging doesn’t stop though so he pads over to the door to answer it. He throws on a pair of sweatpants to look loosely presentable and doesn’t wonder if he’s still got sex hair going for him right now even after they showered. It doesn’t matter either way, the person at the door is probably Greyson from two doors down trying to borrow more duck tape again for hell knows what since their landlord finally got around to replacing his door. 

Bucky isn’t generally in the business of asking questions.

He unlocks the door cautiously, body strung tight in preparation of an attack and slides the deadbolt across before swinging the door wide.

Greyson isn’t there though. It’s Tony.

Tony takes one look at Bucky’s bare chest, then his sweatpants before finally resting on Bucky’s hair and even though all of Steve’s marks have healed and vanished by now what Tony’s thinking is clearly written on his face. The gleam in his eyes seems suspiciously triumphant.

The toilet flushes and Steve steps out into the living room a second later, naked except for the underwear he’s wearing that is clearly not his and the general relaxed expression one typically wears after few rounds of mind blowing sex. 

Bucky would curse his poor timing but there’s no point getting riled up over it. The team was going to find out about them eventually.

He resists the urge to sigh when Tony’s eyebrows nearly disappear into his hairline with glee. This is something they’re going to have to suffer through until their friends lose interest in the novelty of it. He just wishes it hadn’t been Tony to make the discovery first. Especially since he’s been rife with inappropriate comments about them since the beginning.

“Oh thank God,” Tony says but then he’s leaning back and yelling to somebody else down the hall. “They finally got around to doing the nasty with each other. I was worried their 20th Century sensibilities would prevent them from ever making the beast with two backs.”

“Yeah, clearly you had our best interests at heart,” Bucky offers sarcastically, when Tony’s eyes return to ogling his bare chest.

“I did,” Tony protests, offended. “Why do you think I kept bringing it up? You saps were just going to keep pining from afar without doing anything fun about it. I made this happen.”

“Please don’t take credit for my sex life,” Steve says, coming up behind Bucky and wrapping his arms around his chest. “That’s horrifying. And stop objectifying my boyfriend.”

Bucky’s delighted at the sound of it but doesn’t show it, particularly when Tony is watching him so closely, waiting for a chance to tease them.

Natasha finally appears at Tony’s shoulder, eyes sharp and calculating at the sight of them together. “So it’s boyfriend now?”

“Yes,” Bucky agrees firmly. “It is.”

Pepper appears next, gently covering Tony’s eyes when it’s clear he’s going to keep staring. “I’m happy for the both of you.”

“At least somebody is getting laid around here,” Clint mutters as he pushes past them into Bucky’s apartment, carrying plastic bags full of hot takeout.

Natasha follows, then Pepper and Tony. Sam heads in after them and pats Bucky and Steve on the back as if to offer mutual congratulations. Raenia comes in afterward, expression apologetic once she realises they might’ve interrupted something. Thor is at her shoulder, stepping in as well, though he mostly ducks in order to squeeze through the doorway.

“I do not understand,” he says. “Were you not shieldmates already?”

Tony spins smartly on his heel. “Aha! I knew that’s what that meant!”

“Everyone knew what that meant, Tony,” Natasha mutters, rolling her eyes as she stretches out on Bucky’s couch. “We’re just in possession of this little thing called ‘tact’- a quality you have yet to develop.”

“I am shocked and offended,” Tony declares without heat. And then goes on to prove his lack of tact a second later. “Should we check the sheets to make sure that their marriage was finally consummated?”

Steve flinches in a way that is too obvious to be able to deny and Bucky resists the urge to roll his eyes. “You’re welcome to if you’re into that sort of thing,” he says. “No judgement.”

But Tony’s all talk and makes a face that’s equally obnoxious and cowed. As only Tony can.

Steve’s still standing behind Bucky to cover up his lack of clothing but as soon as the attention leaves him, he’s disappearing into the bedroom to make himself more presentable. Bucky trails after him, unashamedly watching Steve’s back as he moves and unable to ignore the fact that his skin is flushed pink from being caught without pants.

Bucky doesn’t think it’s a big deal but he was always more shameless than Steve was so he doesn’t judge him for it when he reaches the chest of drawers. He opens the right one without any direction and Bucky presses up against his back, wrapping an arm around his chest.

“Are you alright?” he asks, kissing Steve’s neck.

He rests his hands atop of Bucky’s and leans into the touch. “Didn’t think I’d have to share you so quickly,” he admits. “I wanted more time.”

God, he somehow didn’t anticipate Steve would be as sweet as this. He should’ve known but. Bucky smiles into his skin. “We’ve got all the time in the world,” he says. “And as soon as they’re gone you’re gonna fuck me again.”

“Am I?” Steve wonders, turning with a pair of sweatpants in his grip and a hungry look in his eyes, which means he might be very amenable to the suggestion.

Good. They shouldn’t leave the bed for a week if they can manage it. Even then it wouldn’t be enough. Bucky leans over his shoulder to open the drawer above him, tugging out one of his favourite sweaters. Steve steps into the sweatpants as Bucky sticks his arms through the sleeves and tugs it overhead.

“If you want,” he offers. “We’ve got a lot of time to catch up on.”

Steve takes one of Bucky’s sweaters and starts tugging it over his broad chest.

“Let’s just throw them out now,” he mutters, laughing softly when he leans in to kiss at the corner of Bucky’s mouth.

Bucky surges into the kiss and pulls Steve in closer. A month. They shouldn’t leave bed for a month. That'll work for him. Steve groans into his mouth, pressing forward and wrapping his arms around Bucky firmly as if there was a chance he’d be going somewhere else right now. 

They’re swept away in the next moment, clutching one another tight, bodies swaying together as they deepen the kiss. 

“You better not be naked in there,” Tony calls out warningly as if he’s going to come in to check.

“Hurry up,” Natasha calls. “Or Clint’s gonna eat everything.” 

“I will,” Clint promises. “The threat is very real right now.”

Steve draws away, rolling his eyes but needs to take a few short breaths to sort himself out before he’s ready to go back out again. Bucky watches him with interest, the pink flush a little deeper than before and he wants nothing more than to toss their friends to the curb and tug Steve back into his bedroom. 

He manages to resist the urge. Barely.

Their friends would understand though. They’ve been waiting for this for a long while now. Steve smiles before taking Bucky’s hand and leading him out into the living room. The rest of the team has already gotten set up, take out containers open and spread across the small coffee table. It steals the air from his lungs when Steve doesn’t let go of his hand when they sit down.

They take the available space left on the rug, sitting closely together like they normally do, only Steve wraps an arm around his waist and pulls Bucky in between the v of his open legs. The heat of his hand against Bucky’s hip feels like a thunderous proclamation, anchoring him to Steve. 

Bucky struggles to control the flush of heat, raising the temperature of his skin but Natasha seems to notice because in the next moment she’s smirking at him.

He raises an eyebrow but refuses to let her embarrass him.

“Dig in.”

They don’t wait for further instructions. Clint nearly upends a container he moves so fast.

 

  
  


 

The food is filling but Bucky feels like he can barely taste it, not when Steve refuses to let go of him. The heat is so distracting that he nearly drops food on his sweater. Twice.

The rest of the team stick around for an unfair amount of time considering he and Steve have only just finally gotten together and barely had the chance to soak up the privacy of it yet. Bucky can’t kick them out though no matter how much he wants to, not when he owes them all so much.

He’d probably still be in prison if it wasn’t for their help and that means something. Even if he’d resigned himself to accepting that they were willing to put themselves into danger in order to do it. 

And if Steve can be patient until their friends finally leave, then so can he. They’ve got plenty of time. 

Bucky intends to suffer quietly through it because he doesn’t want to be alone with Steve purely to get naked again. He's just distracted by the rush of their new intimacy together and the brightness of it makes it hard to concentrate on anything else.

But he can wait. He can. There’s no rush.

Steve has other ideas though because once everybody has finished eating, clearing all of the mess afterward and the conversation still keeps rolling, his lips press together with barely concealed agitation. It’s when it’s winding closer to midnight that he finally puts his foot down. Bucky nearly doesn't last that long, ready to throw them out himself.

“Okay,” Steve says abruptly, interjecting into the conversation. “You know that all of you mean a lot to me and I’d trust you with my life, but you need to leave now.”

Thor laughs stridently, patting Steve’s shoulder and for a second Bucky thinks Thor doesn’t understand he’s completely serious until he stands up to go.

“Hey, hold on,” Tony protests, waving a hand at Thor to stop him crossing the room. “This isn’t even your apartment,” he accuses Steve. “Who are you to decide for Bucky? He is his own man, Steve, you ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

Steve’s not having Tony’s attitude right now even when everyone turns to stare at Bucky expectantly. It’s almost impossible not to laugh at their faces. “Goodbye.”

Natasha chuckles but nobody seems particularly insulted. Not even Tony, though he does grumble about it more than anyone else.

“C’mon let’s be fair,” Clint says pragmatically. “We’re superheroes not super cockblockers.”

“We’ll see you tomorrow,” Raenia says with a snort, climbing to her feet.

Bucky glances innocently at Steve. “We’re gonna need more than a day.”

Sam groans and covers his face with a hand as if to shield his eyes. “It’s like finding out that your parents still have sex.”

There is a collective set of cringing that Bucky feels he should find offensive. Steve is frowning a little, but his expression isn’t exactly bothered as long as it gets the Avengers out of Bucky's living room. Some sacrifices are willing to be made.

“Do you see me as a father figure, Sam?”

“Alright. I’m leaving,” Sam says, standing up abruptly when Bucky laughs outright. “See you later.”

Steve is grinning widely when everybody else gets up to leave as well. The feeling is completely mutual. He may have grown fond of all these people but right now Bucky’s happy to see their backs when they’re finally persuaded out the door. 

Bucky's got some manners so he's not rude about it. Although when they’re finally gone it's hard not to exhale a sigh of relief, watching Steve keenly from the corner of his eye.

“Bed?” Steve asks and he can't help but shiver at the promise in his voice.

“Wanna watch a movie?”

Steve shrugs and glances at the open doorway of his bedroom. “Do you want me to bring the-“ 

“Yes,” Bucky says, heat flushing through him as he heads back to the couch.

He doesn’t sit down before Steve returns with the lube and a significant bulge in his sweatpants. 

Steve sets the bottle down on the floor and spreads out across the couch, pressing his back against the cushions, lying on his side and patting the available space welcomingly. Oh, Jesus this is gonna be good. Bucky swallows hard and inserts himself into the free space, Steve wrapping around him and pulling him in.

The fact that they’re two large men squeezing onto a couch only means that they’re crowded closer together and Bucky can already feel the press of Steve’s cock against his ass. He groans and clutches at the arms closing around his chest. 

His heart is pounding but not out of the kind of stress this intimacy would usually produce in anybody that wasn’t Steve. Heat surges in his body, rousing him and Steve doesn’t need to slide his hand down Bucky’s chest to his crotch to feel that he’s hard even if he does it anyway.

Bucky rocks into the pressure of Steve’s hand and the feel of him against his ass.

“You just wanted to have sex on this couch?” Steve clarifies, already knowing the answer but curious as to why.

“I want to christen every surface of my apartment,” he explains, jerking his hips forward. “And yours.”

Steve moans and Bucky can hear him struggling to pull his sweatpants down, exposing his erection and anticipation rushes through him, before he’s pressing back harder. Just to feel more of him.

Bucky reaches out for the lube and feels Steve’s hands tugging his pants over the swell of his ass before reaching for his underwear. He’s completely exposed, feeling the hardness of Steve’s cock shoved against him and tosses the bottle to Steve, rocking back invitingly. He’s still in the sweater, skin hot and achy but after a nod to Steve, he helps him push it up under his armpits together, exposing most of his skin to the air.

The nakedness is some kind of blessing since his body has become a furnace during the interim of Steve warming the lube before he finally edges his fingers inside of him. 

Bucky groans at the first taste of it, still basking in the sensation even as Steve preps him quickly, grasping Bucky close and holding their bodies together with his free arm. The urgency swells in his chest, in his blood and Bucky’s gripping Steve’s thigh and encouraging him on, gasping harshly into the cushion when he turns his face to ground himself.

“But the couch in particular,” Steve adds as if he wants to know why Bucky’s inveigled him into screwing around on this specific piece of furniture. 

He can’t even think straight right now and Steve’s gearing up to debate surfaces worth fucking on. Would he just quit talking about the fucking couch already? 

“I thought you hated this thing.”

A strangled laugh fights its way out of his mouth as he rocks back hard against Steve’s fingers moving sinuously within him. “Closest to your bed that I could get.”

That seems to have an effect on Steve because his body shivers against him and Bucky can feel him panting openly into the skin of his shoulder. The groan that breaks free once he deems Bucky loose enough brings forth a complimentary shudder as if their bodies are speaking to each other and trying to convey need.

Bucky can’t find any words when Steve finally drags his fingers free. It’s basically his couch now. Steve’s been sleeping here long enough. He's probably more intimately acquainted than Bucky is.

“Buck,” he grunts, and he knows Steve’s slicking himself up, the sounds of tearing announcing that he’s putting on a rubber but he has to ask first. 

This kind of asking, Steve has no problem with. Apparently.

Where he’s pulled the rubber from Bucky has no idea. Steve with condoms is a foreign combination to him. If Steve’s wrapping himself up only to protect the couch and make the clean up easier though he shouldn't bother. The couch is ugly and ancient and Bucky’s more fond of it than should be allowed.

“Are you gonna-?” he grouches just as Steve’s cock is meeting his rim and beginning to press in.

Words leave him in a rush as Steve pulls his body in closer, lurching deeper in a slick slide that has Bucky clutching sharply at Steve’s forearm and silently urging him on.

He bottoms out a second later and stops moving, drawing Bucky in like he’s hugging him and a rush of memory reaches him to remind him that Steve's done this before. That day at the Institute when he showed up early to Bucky's class.

“You like holding me like this,” he realises, only a little dizzy with the warmth of satisfaction it stirs within him.

Steve’s hips jerk in approval. “Yeah,” he agrees a second later. “And you know why?”

Bucky’s shaking his head, focus narrowed on the lack of movement between them. The stillness is only drawing out the demands his body is making right now. Steve slowly brushes the tangle of Bucky’s hair aside, nosing through it and inhaling deeply.

“So I can do this,” he murmurs and then his mouth is descending hot and wet against the exposed skin of Bucky’s neck and his hips are surging forward.

That first thrust nearly throws Bucky off the couch if not for Steve’s arm wrapped securely around his chest, reeling him back in. The stiffness in his breath and the rigid, urgency of his neglected cock tells him quickly enough that he likes it. He likes Steve holding him close, yanking their bodies together and not letting go. Keeping him near as he fucks him.

“Steve,” he moans, rocking back into his moving hips. 

Heat is steadily building between them and even without Steve touching his dick, he thinks he’s going to come without the stimulation anyway.

“Let go,” Steve whispers against his throat, increasing the pace of his hips, slamming inside him harder and faster. “I’ve got you.”

Bucky tries to tilt his neck to kiss him but comes before Steve reaches his lips, humming through the aftershocks when his body goes rigid with orgasm. Steve still manages to cup his cock as he shoots, catching most of his come so he doesn’t mess up the carpet. 

He slows the movement of his hips, rocking into Bucky with the gentlest shifts since he’s all wrung out and sensitive now. Steve’s orgasm sneaks up on them both and Bucky groans when he pulls out and removes the condom, tying the rubber and moving up to head toward the trash. He’s much too far away to snuggle.

Bucky groans and rolls off the couch after him since they could probably do with another shower and maybe change the sheets while they're at it since he has plans to climb back into bed after. Steve washes his hands in the sink to get rid of Bucky’s come and they amble toward the bathroom together, Steve taking his outstretched hand without even seeing Bucky extend his fingers. 

They shower lazily, bodies slick and satisfied when they douse themselves under the spray. 

Bucky indolently leans into Steve’s neck, wrapping his arms around him and sighing at the feel of fingers running down his back in return. The hot water is gone but neither of them are uncomfortable. They’ve suffered through worse conditions. 

The point is that they don’t have to anymore. They can curl up in bed and hold each other for as long as they want.

Steve shuts off the water eventually, gently steering Bucky toward the towel rack, exchanging soft kisses when they go to dry themselves. Bucky waits to see what Steve will do afterward but when he doesn’t put any clothes back on it’s pretty clear he’s planning on staying naked.

Bucky can get onboard with that. 

He seems to read his mind as well because once they're dry, Steve heads into the living room toward the cupboard where Bucky stores his bedsheets and pulls fresh ones out. Bucky watches him go before moving to the bedroom to start stripping the mattress. He’s already removed the comforter when Steve returns, setting the fresh sheets down on the chest of drawers before he’s stepping into help, squeezing Bucky’s hip and lingering for a beat a little lower on the spread of his ass.

Bucky grins at the innocent look he maintains and catches the edges of the bottom sheet. 

Steve’s on the opposite side of the mattress and untucks both the edges there so that Bucky can tug the sheet towards him in one flourish, exposing the bare mattress. He takes a step back, balling up the dirty sheets, aims, and tosses them into the washing hamper through the open door of the ensuite bathroom.

A second later Steve is handing over the opposite edge of the fresh bottom sheet so that Bucky can tuck them in. Steve’s smiling to himself across the mattress as they complete the task, utterly naked and relaxed and he can’t help but grin at the sight of him, the genuine happiness there that Bucky knows intimately. 

When Steve looks up, Bucky feels like he might see the same reflected in his own face, equal mirrors of one another.

Once they’ve tucked in all the corners, Steve grabs the second sheet and throws the opposite corner to Bucky so they can drag it up towards the pillows and expertly fold it back. They don’t make it tight like they were expected to in basic training before the front where trenches and dirt floor became their beds but he sees Steve hesitate to shake the routine anyway.

Bucky grabs the comforter next and throws it over the top before he can question himself. The cover has barely settled before Steve is crawling under it with a soft laugh that feels as if it rumbles through Bucky’s stomach.

Steve’s hands are warm and so familiar when they pull him close, equally comfortable in their nakedness. Bucky slots a thigh between Steve’s legs just as Steve crowds closer to tuck his face into Bucky’s throat, half of his body pressed on top of his metal arm.

He frowns a little, but it’s not an uneasy feeling. Steve’s never treated it like it was anything else than a part of him.

“Is it cold?” he asks, pressing his cheek into the dampness of Steve’s hair.

“Naw,” he promises, with the soft tone that means he’s being truthful. “S’ good.”

He cards his fingers through Steve’s hair and when he sighs softly in response, humming at the touch Bucky ends up grinning at the ceiling.

“You’re grinning right now aren’t you?” 

“No,” Bucky declares, lying shamelessly.

Steve laughs into his neck, fingers skirting across all his rough edges.

“How do you feel?” he asks, trailing his hand down Steve’s spine to cup his ass. 

He knows he prepared him and that Steve has clearly fingered himself before but the last thing he wanted to do is unintentionally hurt him with his own enthusiasm.

“Really good,” Steve replies, mouth moving gently against Bucky’s neck. “I’d like- we should do that more often.”

Bucky smirks, pleased by the satisfaction in Steve’s voice and the looseness of his body. The difference in him now is so stark that Bucky can’t believe he never noticed how tense Steve was before. 

“Thing is,” he says. “I’m insatiable remember?”

Steve groans a little but in a way that makes heat spill across his thighs. “Yeah? Good thing I can keep up with you then, huh?”

“Uh-huh,” Bucky agrees, drawing Steve’s chin up for a kiss.

“So about that date,” Steve says a little breathlessly a few minutes later when Bucky manages to drag himself away.

“Where do you wanna go?” he asks, skin feeling tight from smiling so much. “I know a lot of good places. I can show you a good time.”

Steve tilts his head back to grin at him. “I’ll hold you to it.”

Bucky really hopes he does.

 

  
  


 

Steve isn’t exaggerating about the money. It turns out that Bucky’s got a lot of it, much more than he’d ever need to open up a self-defence studio of his own. _More_ than enough.

He doesn’t like having the money but it doesn’t make him sick like it used to and at least here he knows it’s going towards something that will help other people. 

Tony gives him the number of a popular Realtor, Jaden Taylor and he helps Bucky find the perfect place within a week.

“This is it,” Bucky declares quietly to Steve as soon as they step into the studio.

It’s in the Upper East Side, close to Central Park Zoo and a lot of Bucky and Sam’s favourite pubs and the restaurants he usually frequents with Raenia in Hells Kitchen.

The interest in Steve’s eyes is a strong selling point. Bucky can see him already imagining the dimensions of the place as if he’s gonna draw it as soon as he gets his hands on a pencil later. 

Bucky’s noticed Steve with that expression on his face a lot lately, though he hasn’t yet seen him pull out the sketchpad. In time, he's hoping Steve will do it on his own without any pushing.

“I think you’re right,” Steve agrees after a minute of silence stretches between them while he carefully observes the place with an artist's consideration.

There are four studios, more than enough and since this building used to be on old dance school before it was unable to make rent and got foreclosed on, there are full length mirrors in each room. They're layered with dust and grime but that can be cleaned and the ones that have been broken by squatters can be replaced. 

The layout of the place is extremely efficient, multiple exits, a small amount of windows without any significant vantage points. It’s on a main street and it’s close to fifth avenue-59th street station.

It’s roomy and from the looks of it there’s not much substantial work that needs to be done besides a good clean up. It’s kind of perfect.

Exactly what he needs.

Bucky walks through every room, quiet and concentrating, putting the Realtor more on edge from his prolonged silences. Mr Taylor is very professional though and doesn’t show his unease, even when he clearly recognised who Bucky is.

He’s a little overwhelmed by Steve too, judging from the way he stuttered when they’d first been introduced. Mr Taylor recovered beautifully though and Bucky decides that he likes him when he doesn’t hesitate to warn them about the potential difficulties of each building they walk into.

But this one. This will do.

Bucky leads Steve into one of the rooms away from Mr Taylor and Steve is just as serious about the inspection of the place. He wants this to work for Bucky too. So much that he needs to kiss him in the rundown studio he intends to buy.

When they finally return Bucky politely asks Mr Taylor to draw up the paperwork.

 

  
  


 

They haven’t really spent that much time apart since they finally got their shit together and laid their mutual feelings out on the table. They shift frequently between apartments depending on what Bucky's doing that day or what Steve's up to and whichever one is closer.

They’re not trying to rush into anything but within the first few days Bucky’s favourite sweaters have migrated to Steve’s apartment and Steve’s running gear has started turning up in Bucky’s drawers. Neither of them feel worried enough to comment on it.

They’ve lived together before. Though without the added bonus of sex.

They christen Steve’s apartment as soon as possible and Steve’s so enthusiastic about it he all but wrecks Bucky in the process since he can barely move afterwards. Steve’s nice enough to take care of the cleanup, wiping Bucky down gently but the skin around his neck and ears are still pink when he’s finished as if he’s embarrassed for putting Bucky through his paces.

Bucky has no complaints whatsoever.

Their first date is a surprise. Bucky’s not sure what Steve is planning but when he leads him towards Central Park, already carrying a large picnic basket he starts to get some idea.

Steve draws attention like usual though this time he’s wearing a cap and sunglasses and its more to do with the ogling of his body than recognising his face. Luckily Steve seems to know the perfect spot because he leads them behind a hefty rock that's still in the sinking sunlight of afternoon, but is also relatively isolated.

“So these are your moves, huh?” Bucky wonders once Steve pulls a large blanket out of the basket for them to sit on and pats the material invitingly with a relaxed smile that it hurts to look at. 

A delightful flush spreads across Steve’s cheeks despite how enthusiastically he let Bucky bend him over his own couch this morning.  


“Impressive,” he admits, despite himself when the setting sun clears the trees, turning the sky orange and marshmallow pink. 

He stares at the way Steve rests his arms atop his knees and watches him back.

Bucky makes a point then of sliding between Steve’s open legs and resting against his chest, making a pleased noise when Steve’s arm come around him, drawing him in.

He uses his free hand to start digging into the basket again, dragging out some fruit, cheese, crackers and blueberry bagels. He sets up a small platter for them to eat off of. He’s even brought some champagne though it’s just bubbly water to them.

“Captain America getting bent in Central Park?” he mocks at the sight of it. “The scandal.”

“Steve Rogers,” he corrects with a wink. “Turns out he’s not so good with rules as he likes to think.”

“Is he now?” Bucky wonders, gratified. Even more so when Steve starts feeding him grapes.

His fingers linger notably against his mouth, brushing against his tongue and if he wasn’t already hard, he’d definitely would be now.

“Reckon I could get Steve Rogers to fuck me right here on this blanket if I asked nice?”

Steve groans as if the suggestion physically hurt him but Bucky knows in exactly what kind of way. That’s not a champagne bottle pressing into his back right now.

“It’s our first date,” Steve mutters, voice too close to Bucky’s ear to be anything but provocative. “I gotta treat you right.”

“I think since we did this all backward anyways we may as well… indulge.”

That argument doesn't seem like it's going to work even when Steve groans again and leans down to kiss him. “You really are a bad influence.”

Bucky kisses back just as deeply. “Don’t act like you didn’t pack lube and condoms in there,” he says, tilting his head towards the large basket. “You said you wanna treat me right huh, Steve? You gonna give it to me good?”

The fact that Steve doesn’t immediately deny the accusation tells him he’s right on the money. 

“We’re making up for lost time,” he offers pragmatically after a pause, smoothing his hand tenderly across Bucky’s stomach. “We can’t help it.”

“Yeah,” he agrees eagerly. “Yeah that’s right, Stevie. You gonna let me touch you? Suck you off?”

Steve groans and hauls Bucky up to kiss him harder this time. He wraps his hands around Steve’s neck to feel him closer and opens his mouth, letting him in. He knows his own body, knows how excited it is right now but even as he pushes forward, he can feel Steve’s hesitation.

“You don’t wanna?” he guesses, pulling back at the torn expression on Steve’s face.

“No, it’s alright.”

The heat mounting in Bucky’s groin sputters out and dies. He’s out of his arms immediately, scooting to the opposite end of the rug. Steve’s eyes are wide like he’s just been hit about the head by something heavy.

“You’re doing it again,” he accuses. “You said you wouldn’t. Talk to me. I’m not touching you again til you do.”

Steve winces at the change in atmosphere but Bucky knows it’s because he’s blaming himself for causing trouble and not just going along with whatever Bucky wanted. Jesus, he can be such a punk sometimes.

“I’m sorry. I want to, you know I do. It’s just. Our first date you know? I don’t want this memory to be about how you sucked me dry in Central Park when nobody else was around.”

Bucky watches him carefully for a minute, gauging whether Steve’s actually being honest this time. But he is. 

“Don’t be sorry,” he says. “Just talk to me. Tell me when you don’t want something.”

Steve’s more upset than he’s willing to show, though Bucky can still see it. “I- I will, Buck. Can you come back now?”

That he can do. Bucky waits only a second before he’s edging back and setting in between Steve’s legs again. Even when he’s there, Steve’s still hesitant to touch him as if he’s the one that’s done something wrong and Bucky tries not to let his temper get the better of him.

“When we get home we can-“ he starts a second later.

“We don’t have to,” Bucky cuts him off. “It’s not about that. You know this isn’t just about that. That’s not the only closeness I want from you, you get that right? I want this too.”

Bucky catches Steve’s hands and draws them back around him again, not holding tight enough to show he’s got the option of pulling away. Steve doesn’t though, he moves closer.

They settle back in and Bucky reaches out for some grapes to lift to Steve’s mouth a second later. The awkwardness rolls away when he accepts the offering and doesn’t speak until he’s finished chewing.

“Thank you.”

Bucky’s tries not to grimace. “You don’t need to thank me, Stevie. I respect your boundaries and you respect mine. That’s how it s’posed to work. You talk to me and I talk to you. That’s how we treat each other right.”

Steve hums softly and holds Bucky tighter, nuzzling at his neck. “When did you get so good at this?” he breathes.

“You think I know what I’m doing?” he repeats, incredulous laugh following the question. “I got no clue, Steve. But I know whatever it is, with you it’s easier. Always has been.”

“I know,” he promises and Bucky doesn’t doubt him. “I know.”

 

  
  


 

In under a month Bucky has the studio ready.

Steve helps when he can but even he seems to sense that this is Bucky’s project and something he mostly wants to do by himself. Bucky spends his weekdays cleaning out the studios, repairing anything that’s a potential hazard and replacing anything broken beyond what he can fix. 

The work is dirty, hands on and frustrating as hell most days and Bucky loves every second of it.

The wiring in the place still works really well so he doesn’t need an electrician, but he’s quick to figure out Pest Control is vital when he inspects the basement and realises there’s a veritable rat’s nest living down there.

He sees Steve in the evenings or they have lunch together during the day and even though he’s no longer working for SHIELD he’s still spending a lot of time in the training room at The Tower. There are some recruits there at the moment, young superheroes and Bucky doesn't want to outright suggest that Steve should teach them even though he's clearly dying to. 

Bucky thinks he’s still trying to figure out what to do with himself so he doesn’t push him about it. All in good time.

Raenia comes over to inspect the place in the first week and he can tell that she likes what she sees.

“It’ll do,” she declares after she’s strolled through all of the rooms. “Now you’ll just need some other instructors.”

The buzz of pleasure lingering from his close encounter with Steve that morning fades abruptly. “I hadn’t thought of that yet,” he mutters. “It’s going to be hard to find a couple of good ones.”

He may have formed some biases from working at the Institute with Todd and Chad. Raenia seems to know what he means.

“If anyone can find them you can.”

Bucky’s not so sure but there’s plenty of time to worry about that once the building is up to standard and ready to bring in students.

“I’m really happy for you, you know,” she adds a second later. “That everything’s working out for you. That you and Steve got your shit together.”

Bucky grins at her. “Me too. You hungry?”

“I could eat.”

“Let’s go.”

Steve meets them at one of their regular haunts but he’s been followed by a small legion of paparazzi who become much more interested in the meeting when they realise that Bucky is also there. Since he was released from jail, the timeline of the Winter Soldier posted online for the whole world to see, interest has somewhat faded from his experiences as the Winter Soldier and shifted toward what Bucky is now doing with his life instead. 

He's been followed a few times by some photographers but there seems to be some unspoken agreement about never approaching him because nobody tries to talk to him like they do with Steve. That doesn't mean they don't gawk and stare though. Bucky isn't decided on which one is worse. 

Right now, the paparazzi is definitely worse. He grits his teeth in annoyance when Steve frowns, clearly upset by their presence, but unwilling to make a scene. Half of the time that's what they're banking on when they cross a line though so it doesn't change much. 

Bucky’s annoyance only grows when Steve doesn’t kiss him hello like he usually does but must sense how that makes him feel because he rests his hand on Bucky’s lower back after he takes a seat instead.

“Sorry,” he says. “They caught me coming out of the Tower and followed me here.”

Raenia scowls at them all and doesn't hesitate to flip them off when they openly watch them. Bucky frowns and tries to ignore the clicking of the cameras even when the owner comes out from behind the bar and tells them all to leave. They do with some minor protesting, but Bucky knows they’ll be waiting outside for them all once they’re finished.

He wishes not for the first time that they weren't of such an interest to the public. But since Steve's taken on the life of a civilian, it seems, media attention towards him and by default, Bucky, has grown. There aren't any reports on their relationship yet, but he knows the speculations are already running wild from seeing them together all the time.

He waits until Raenia leaves to start her shift before voicing the worry that's sunken like a stone in his stomach.

“Why didn’t you kiss me before?” he wonders carefully. “Are you ashamed that we’re-“

“No,” Steve promises so sharply that several of the patrons turn to look at them curiously. Steve flushes and lowers his voice. “I just thought, maybe with everything else that you didn’t want the extra attention. I should have asked you.”

“Nah, you’re right. I don’t want the attention but I’m not gonna hide this. I’ve been hiding too long already.”

Steve’s smile is so pleased that Bucky can help but lean over the table to kiss him. He grins when Steve nearly drags him across the wood to get that little bit closer.

“Wanna go to the studio?” he asks when they pull apart to gasp. Because it's the closest building he can think of for them to get naked in.

“Wanna go home?” Steve says at the same moment.

They share equal grins at the shared thoughts. Bucky can read the interest in his eyes and can feel it swimming through his body. He did some good work today, he could probably head home and reap the rewards of getting to put his hands all over Steve’s body.

“Your apartment is closer,” Bucky points out, voice sounding unnecessarily deeper.

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, breathlessly. “I wanna try riding you into the mattress.”

Bucky groans and throws down a tip and reaches for his jacket before Steve’s even finished speaking. The hunger in his eyes matches Bucky’s own and they head straight for the door.

The paparazzi are out there waiting for them but Bucky takes Steve’s hand and next thing he knows is that they’re running.

And then nobody can catch up.

Steve’s good for his word. When they make it back to Steve’s apartment he drags Bucky straight into the bedroom and helps him out of his clothes.

He rides Bucky long and hard, taut muscles writhing in pleasure with every roll of his hips, with eyes never straying from his face.

It’s a struggle not to come straight away and Bucky has to grip the sheets hard to stay grounded when Steve completely lets go. The way he looks above him, chasing his pleasure is the most exquisite thing he’s ever witnessed.

Steve doesn’t hold back until his orgasm washes over him and it coaxes out Bucky’s own soon after.

“Good?” he slurs a few minutes after he regains the ability to speak again.

He's gonna need a while before he can move. Steve just huffs out a wearied laugh from where he’s half collapsed atop of Bucky’s sweaty chest. “We should do that again.”

“I’m up for it if you are,” he says, smiling softly.

Steve kisses the flat plane of skin above his nipple with a tenderness that rips the air from his lungs.

 

  
  


 

Bucky returns to check on Chad and Todd nearly two months after his last visit. Just to be sure that they’ve taken his warning into account. 

He's told Steve all about what happened the last time he went to their apartments but Steve is already busy helping Clint move in the new couch he bought for himself yesterday to be able to accompany him. 

Tony kept insisting Clint pay somebody else to move the couch in for him but this only seemed to offend him even more and when Steve finally couldn't take the bickering, he intervened with an offer to help.

He doesn't want Bucky doing this alone now that he nows Chad is the one who sold him out in the first place, but Steve trusts his judgement and knows that he can take care of himself. He's still worried when Bucky leaves though and warns him not to do anything too illegal. Can't make any promises. 

Bucky stops by Todd’s apartment first and although he’s not surprised to discover Todd is nowhere to be seen, it’s another question of whether Todd’s out in the clubs trying to pick up a woman who wants nothing to do with him or if he's on a date with someone who willingly chose to be there.

For the most part, Bucky knows they listened to him. The woman he used to teach at the Institute are still in contact with Raenia and she’s mentioned that their friends agree they’ve become much more bearable since his visit. He decides not to jump to any conclusions before checking in on Chad. 

Whatever is happening right now, he has no doubt that Chad is somehow at the heart of it.

Bucky lets himself out of Todd’s apartment and starts off towards Chad’s place next. 

He figured he’d get a lot more resistance from Chad in some way or form after threatening him in his own bedroom but Chad must’ve realised it was in his best interest not to antagonise the Winter Soldier. Bucky’s not that same person anymore but if fear of him prevents Chad and Todd from harassing women and generally being douchebags then he’s not going to tell them otherwise.

Todd and Chad live in vastly different neighbourhoods, largely due to their differences in income and fathers who pay for said income and it takes some time to reach Chad’s penthouse apartment.

Bucky plans to break in again once he's sure Chad isn't in the middle of entertaining any guests but stops at the corner of the street opposite when he reaches the building, spotting Chad pausing at the front of the lobby doors with what seems to be his date. 

The distance is too far to be certain so Bucky walks forward another hundred metres, sticking to the shadows and staying out of sight before he recognises Chad’s companion isn’t in fact, a woman, but a man.

He turns his head at the right moment to push the hair off from his face, blown about by the biting wind and Bucky recognises Todd. He's close enough now that his sharp eyes witness the nervous tremble to Todd's hands as they shake.

The reaction is strange and somewhat suspicious, bringing Bucky closer still, curious now as to whether they're cooking up some more trouble. He wants to know for sure if they truly learnt some kind of lesson out of this but somehow, Bucky's not holding out much hope. 

That is before Todd very pointedly places his hand onto Chad’s chest and anchors his left hand intimately at the base of his neck. The gesture is enough to give Bucky pause as he watches them, puzzling out what is going on.

A passer by blocks the sight of Chad’s reaction but words are clearly exchanged before Todd straightens his spine with some kind of unspoken resolve and leans in to kiss Chad hard on the mouth.

Bucky stills, raising an eyebrow at the unexpected sight but otherwise doesn’t move to intervene. It’s clear from the rigidity of Chad’s body that this is the first time that Todd's ever done this and unwilling interest in how this might play out keeps his feet rooted to the pavement.

It might be the 21st century but these kind of blatant advances can still be met with surprise, cruelty, heartache and even violence.

Bucky doesn’t know if he’s planning to step in if it comes to that but remains there to watch them, wondering if he and Steve might have gotten their acts together quicker if he'd just turned around and done something like this.

He doesn’t know what he’s expecting of Chad but whatever it is, it’s not for him to slacken like he's suddenly been meticulously unwound. Or for Chad to curl an arm around Todd and drag him in closer.

Their kissing is frantic and heated, enough to attract the attention of strangers passing by and when they don’t appear to notice that or the outside world altogether, Bucky starts to feel like a voyeur.

They realise a moment later, clutching each other feverishly when Chad manages to focus and wrench his mouth away. The matching flushes to skin and expressions of astonishment seems equally telling before Chad is seizing Todd’s wrist and dragging him across the threshold of the building, through the lobby and evidently up towards his apartment.

Bucky hadn’t anticipated _that_ result but if it works it works and there’s no point worrying about why. Since he has no intention of interrupting them now, he spins on his heel and starts walking home instead.

He wonders what Steve might think about this when he tells him later, but he'd probably just be happy for them. Steve's always been a romantic. It’s not until he’s back home and crawling into bed with Steve who's only finished up with Clint that he begins to think how funny and strange the world is. 

And that maybe he’s glad he’s still living in it.

 

  
  


 

He opens the self-defence studio a week later. Raenia, Sam, Natasha and Clint all make it out on opening day and Nat brings a bottle of champagne to crack open in celebration.

Steve’s been there since early morning and the expression of pride on his face is utterly distracting but keeps Bucky feeling buoyant throughout the day. There’s only about eight potential clients who walk into the lobby but Bucky wasn’t expecting a lot for the first day. Even with the posters Sam and Steve helped him stick up around New York.

By the end of the week nearly all of Bucky’s students from the Institute have signed up for his course. Raenia signed up first, but Layla, Eudora, Emir, Hayri, Zamira and plenty of others signed up just as quickly. Even Jacob and Hiroto pay him a visit, having heard about the place from Steve and they sign up together. 

Bucky gives them a discount, still feeling guilty for ever suspecting they wouldn't keep his secrets. 

He's also not sure if he should feel bad about poaching all of Chad and Todd’s clients especially now that he's seen a different side to them. It’s not as if he’s stolen _all_ of their clients though, they’ll be sure to make up the numbers. And Chad probably owes him anyway, for selling him out to the police.

He knows that success doesn’t happen immediately, but right now he’s not worried. He's found two instructors that are decent fighters and even more decent people. The whole point of this place is to help anybody who needs it. And with their help, Bucky knows that they can. If he only ever ends up with his old students from the Institute to teach then so be it.

Somehow he doesn’t think that will happen though.

For now, it’s enough.

It’s a start.

 

  
  


 

Bucky wakes up to the rustle of paper and the shifting of a pencil scraping across it. His face is buried into the pillow, arms stuffed beneath it and turned towards Steve. Slowly, he opens his eyes to squint at him, sensing he’s interrupting something private.

Steve, who’s sitting up against the headboard and evidently wide-awake is balancing a sketchpad across his knees. From the furrow of concentration positioned in his brow, Bucky can tell that he’s in the zone of drawing again and he probably hasn’t even noticed that Bucky woke up. Not wanting to disturb his creative flow, he re-settles back into the pillow and closes his eyes again.

He doesn’t know what prompted Steve to start sketching finally but the thought of it makes him extremely happy. Even if it means there’s a higher chance of Steve shoving the sketchpad under his pillow or leaving pencil shavings in the sheets again.

That’s a compromise he’s willing to suffer through. If it means that Steve is drawing like he used to.

It’s Sunday, the day they usually skip their morning run for the chance at sleeping in or at least attempting to before they waste a few hours cuddling in bed.

Bucky isn’t planning on falling back to sleep but Steve must have tired him out much more than anticipated last night because that’s exactly what he does.

When he wakes up again, the sunlight is spilling more insistently into the bedroom, warming the sheets and making him more drowsy than he should be when he rolls over and sees Steve isn’t there.

He listens carefully and the sounds of Steve pottering around in the kitchen greet him. He's most likely in the process of making himself tea or coffee.

Bucky rubs distractedly at his eyes and notices the edge of Steve’s sketchpad hastily hidden beneath his pillow. Curious as to what he was drawing, Bucky reaches over and extricates it quietly, alertness stealing into his body when he opens it.

He flicks the pages all the way through to the most recent one, stopping altogether once he reaches the image.

It’s Bucky. Steve’s drawn him while he was sleeping, head buried into the pillow with enough to show the slackness of his face in sleep, the broad sweeping planes of his naked back half exposed beneath the sheets. As always, Steve’s detail is impressive, even the way that he’s drawn the metal arm curled beneath his pillow.

The softness there in his face seems strange to him, but he knows that Steve hasn’t drawn the expression from memory. That’s what he had looked like a few hours ago when Steve abruptly decided to pick up the pencil.

He looks… content. Relaxed in a way that only being around Steve can ever achieve, each weaponised muscle in his body loosened and comfortable, overcome by an unconscious ease that he would never have believed possible for himself.

Steve really has spared no detail. The expanse of his hips still carry some of Steve’s bruises from their lovemaking, all healed now and the hickey above the ridges of his ass has all but vanished.

But here it all is, preserved in a small moment that Steve has captured on paper. 

Of Bucky, vulnerable in this fresh, unspoken softness. The thing is, he knows he could never have looked like that, not even before the war but staring at it now he’s in quiet awe of it. Of a reality that Steve not only had a strong impact on but also managed to recreate so expressively with a pencil.

It’s not just the resurfacing of Steve’s artistic spirit again but what it reflects in every line. His understanding.

Steve understands Bucky and that’s what he’s drawn here. Not some false, idolised image.

Bucky swallows hard at the emotions it stirs in his chest before he closes the sketchpad and fondly stows it under Steve’s pillow.

“Did you like it?”

Bucky doesn’t startle because he saw Steve return from his peripherals thirty seconds ago, leaning against the doorway to watch him.

“Course,” he says, turning to stare at Steve’s soft, affectionate gaze. “I didn’t think I could look like that.”

The ease in Steve’s body doesn’t abandon him because they can talk about these things without the fear of going to far. Bucky thinks they can talk about anything now that their feelings are out in the open.

Now that Steve asked for his heart and he gave his own in return.

“You mean after Hydra?”

Bucky shakes his head. “No. Ever. I didn’t think I knew how to be that honest.”

Steve’s smile is warm. “You always were with me. Maybe not in so many words but I knew just the same.”

It’s a good feeling being understood like this. Bucky thinks Steve’s always had an uncanny ability to read his heart. Even if he’d tried to pretend he didn’t.

Suddenly the distance between them seems imbalanced.

“I hope you’re in here cause you’re comin’ back to bed,” Bucky says, peeling the sheets back invitingly.

He likes that Steve’s expression is torn, though he takes an unconscious step into the room anyway. “I’m making coffee, Buck. Don’t you want some?”

“Add some food in and I’ll make it worth your while.”

Steve’s eyes narrow as a telling flush of heat works its way across his jaw. “Oh yeah? What kind of options are we talking here?”

That's a loaded question. Bucky smirks and slowly extracts himself from the bed sheets to edge towards Steve. “Not sure yet but it should involve the both of us naked.”

“I’m on board with that plan if you are.”

Bucky smiles, leaning in to take Steve into his arms. “I told you, I’m following you remember?”

But Steve’s not giving up that easy. “And I already said you’re the one I’ve been trailing after from the start.”

“Think we’ll end up going around in circles?”

The question doesn’t bother Steve at all, not when they’re wrapped around one another like this. “We’ll alternate,” he promises, mouth latching onto Bucky’s exposed shoulder.  


“Yeah,” he breathes, already hard and rearing for the chance to get Steve out of the sweatpants he’s haphazardly thrown over his naked body. “That’s- yeah.”

The kettle whistles shrilly, interrupting them and Steve drags his mouth away with a groan of protest.

Bucky kisses him again just because he can and then steps back, gesturing forward.

“Lead on.”

Steve smiles, the private smile that only Bucky seems to bring out of him before he’s turning and heading into the kitchen.

Bucky doesn’t hesitate.

He follows.

But then Steve pauses to wait for him, hand outstretched and face soft with happiness and Bucky doesn't know how he got this lucky. 

He slips his metal fingers into the warmth of Steve's flesh ones and offers up a smile of his own. 

The next step they take is together.

 

  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 恐れ入ります- thank you (polite/formal)  
> ellos están escuchando- they are listening  
> Por qué estás haciendo esto- why are you doing this?  
> я люблю тебя- I love you  
> Je t'aime tellement mon amour- I love you so much my love


End file.
